


Christmastime on Fox Meadow Lane

by brummiebex, buckydeservedmorepassiton (brummiebex)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bookstores, M/M, Military Backstory, Minor Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Omega Bucky Barnes, Single Father Bucky Barnes, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 07:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21472270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brummiebex/pseuds/brummiebex, https://archiveofourown.org/users/brummiebex/pseuds/buckydeservedmorepassiton
Summary: Bucky Barnes is a recently-divorced single father who moves from Brooklyn to a sleepy, Westchester town for a change of pace and a safe, quiet place to raise his daughter. With his ex-husband co-parenting from across the world, and a cozy job at a eccentric bookstore, he's ready to start this new chapter of his life.  That is, until he pisses off his broody next-door neighbor before even meeting the guy.Steve Rogers, a retired Marine also sought a calmer lifestyle in Westchester; and he had one, until a handsome brunet stranger and his daughter move in next door. Trying to follow his friends' advice that he put himself out there, he manages to embarrass himself, the very first time they meet. He resolves to make nice with him, and along the way, grows enamored by those cute brown curls and that kind smile of his.OR: A Christmas fic started in November because its HOLLY JOLLY SEASON KIDDOS!
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Darcy Lewis/Rebecca Barnes Proctor, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Riley/Sam Wilson
Comments: 113
Kudos: 355





	1. Moving Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is an A/B/O fic!! Which means there will be lots of Alpha/Omega feels throughout!
> 
> A very basic rundown of my ABO-themes for this fic:  
Alphas and Omegas bond (Betas do not) and they seal their bonds with a mark. A/B/O designations can be thought of as stereotypes. Being married, coupled or 'together' for long periods of time without being bonded is generally looked down upon.  
Designations don't necessarily dictate much about the individual besides whether or not they can bear children. Sex, sexual orientation, gender and designation are not exclusive to each other. There just happen to be predispositions in these variables.  
Ex. Women tend to present Omega, men tend to present Alpha, and therefore most relationships are heterosexual, A/O. Any and every other combination is possible, though!

Chapter one: Moving Day. 

Bucky could handle stress. Lots of it—arguably more than the average person—but this? This was the one thing he had difficulty with. Change. 

The movers shuffled around the house, carrying far more boxes than he’d ever expected one person ever could. He’d made things exceptionally easy for them, too. He kept everything out of their way, including himself. He’d color coded the tape on every box with tape on the doorframes of each room, so they’d know exactly where everything went. 

TaskRabbit had become his best friend—he’d had three different guys over since the move started. One to mount the TVs, another to change the water filters, and the third to put together the the furniture he would never be able to himself. 

His Great Big Move-In Plan™ was going off without a hitch, and yet, he couldn’t help himself. Even though all he needed to do was oversee—which he’d been doing for over an hour now, sat on a kitchen stool as the movers brought box after box off of the truck—stress was still seeping out of his bones and into the very air around him. 

“Mista’ Barnes?” The younger fellow waltzes up to him, a clipboard in hand. “That’s the last of it.”

“Already?” He peeks at his watch. 

The four of them had unpacked a three bedroom-house’s worth of furniture and bins in an hour and forty-five minutes. Wildly impressive—but he supposed that Brooklyn boys like Buddy and his crew were just built tough like that. 

“Yessir.” The kid hums, a satisfied look on his face. Bucky takes the clipboard from him and signs where prompted. “Gotta say though—we’ll miss you and Holls being around the neighborhood.”

“We’ll miss Brooklyn too.” Bucky smiles, “But we’ll be around. My parents still live in Bed-Stuy. You tell Buddy he owes my Pops a bridge game.” 

“Yessir!” He grins, shaking Bucky’s hand. “C’mon boys, wrap it up.” 

The boys, clad in dusty blue overalls, all follow him out through the large, ornate front door, leaving just James in the big empty house. 

The house wasn’t as gaudy as he thinks his family will expect it to be. It wasn’t as modest as his childhood home, but it wasn’t as flashy as some of the other houses in the neighborhood. The main structure was built in the fifties, but it’d been updated countless times since then. Four bedrooms—one of which would be an office—and a nice big yard for Holly. 

This is exactly what he wanted. _Suburbia_. He’d traded fast, bustling Brooklyn for calm, sleepy Westchester. Scarsdale had just the right mix of charm and pace for Bucky to settle down. 

This town, this house—it looked like just the sort of place he could make all the memories he wanted to with his daughter. He could almost feel the glossy face of a polaroid—outdated, he knows, because photos these days are all digital, but he felt it nonetheless—and see the shot of he and Holly out front. He could see her growing up here; running around with her friends, making a mess everywhere she possibly could, even having boys wait out front to take her to school dances. 

Tires on the drive pull Bucky out of his daydream, and soon enough, he heard Holly’s sweet voice. 

“Papa?” 

“Over here, Holls.” 

She ran to him, a mess of long brown curls and pink tutu, and leapt into his arms. His sister followed close behind, spinning her keys around her finger. 

“You shoulda seen those kids, Buck.” Becca blows out an impressed breath. “They did so damn well—perfect. Not one mistake through the entire recital.”

“Is that so?” He holds his daughter close. “I bet you were wonderful, Holls. I’m so sorry I missed it. I know how hard you worked.” 

“Well, Randolph Lockhart missed his partners hand on our third turn. So, _almost_ perfect.” Holly hums, settling in Bucky’s arms. “It’s fine, Papa. Auntie Becks got it on video.” 

“Auntie Becks did.” Becca grins, wagging her phone. “It’ll be in the family group-chat once I cut out all the bits Holls isn’t in.” 

Bucky shoots his sister a disapproving glance, but grins at her immediately after. He was just going to scrub through to see his baby girl, anyway_. _

“Papa did the movers bring _all_ of our stuff?” She hums, looking up at him with big chocolate eyes. 

“They sure did. Wanna see your room?” 

She nods, and he drops her down to her feet. 

They’d already seen the house a few times now—only now, it was fully furnished. All that was left to do was unpack. Holly takes off down the hallway, and Bucky turns to his sister. 

“Was she nervous? About the recital?”

“Not at all.” Becca hums, picking up Bucky’s half-cold coffee mug. “Fiercest fuckin’ six-year-old I’ve ever seen.”

A swell of pride blooms in his chest, and the two of them follow Holly down the hallway. 

“As much as I’m proud of you, big brother, I’ve gotta say it—you’re out of your _fucking _mind.” She whispers, looking up at the rafters, “How long is it going to take you to pay for this place?”

Bucky snorts. “I told you and Dad. I have a bit saved up.”

“Mhm,” She hums, “Is he still going to be taking care of Holly's schooling, then?”

“Yeah.” Bucky sighs.

He had enough saved up for the move, but he wouldn’t have been able to save that much without Rumlow’s help. No matter how much he wanted to deny it. Her other father’s military benefits covered Holly's health insurance, her college fund, her school fees, and left them more than enough to support her every couple of weeks. Hell—they’d even lived in his old apartment for the past six years. 

That was far too long to depend on another person. Bucky’s only upset that it took him so long to realize that. 

“Papa, I kinda want the bed the other way.” Holly whispers, her eyes wide and her voice quiet. 

“That’s no problem, princess. We can move it anyway you’d like it.” A little smile graces her lips, so he coaxes it out, “C’mere.” 

By the time he’s grabbed her, she’s giving him loud, toothy laughs that warm him down to his toes. 

Becca settles on a stack of boxes. Its contents rumble under her, so she straightens up before breaking anything. “You gonna need help unpacking?” 

“God, yes.” Bucky groans, “Can you believe how much stuff we had? I can’t believe how long we fit in that apartment.” 

Becca grins, taking Holly from Bucky’s arms, “Well, big brother, I’ll help you and Miss Holly unpack,” She slides the coffee mug into his palm, “_if_ you make me another cup of coffee.” 

Bucky smiles at her, “Done.”

***

The days went by easily in the new house. Bucky and Holly settled in seamlessly. 

With Holly home for Thanksgiving break, they’d made considerable headway with their unpacking efforts. The kitchen, dining room, living room, and Holly’s bedroom were completely unpacked. Bucky’s bedroom was still pretty bare, though. His priorities were Holly’s room and the living spaces, what with his family coming over for Thanksgiving. 

Just then, he was prepping to receive them later that evening for Thanksgiving dinner. They’d delegated dinner sides, but Becca and her wife would most definitely show up with far more than her fair share. Thankfully, he’d been allotted desserts, so he could take an easy cop out with a few pies. 

For the first time since moving in, Bucky’s mind falls on the neighbors. Particularly, the one west of them. 

They were much closer to the neighbors to the west than those to the east, and the yard was large enough that the ones behind them didn’t seem too close. But the house next door was much, much closer. 

Stood in the kitchen rolling out pie dough, Bucky realizes he can sort of see through his living room, across the side hedges, and into his neighbors living room. The waning afternoon light hit the large, floor-to-ceiling window panes oddly, allowing a sliver of light in. 

It looks kinda bare—where Bucky had a big, fluffy couch with tons of blankets and pillows, the neighbor had a firm-looking leather one, with one pillow in the center. 

Bucky had been doing his best to make the place cozy and warm for Holly, and it was clear that the neighbors, whoever they were, were far more eclectic, modern folks. There were a lot of homes for sale in the area—so maybe it was just staged that way. 

George and Winnifred Barnes showed up first, of course, bringing an SUV filled with food with them. Soon after, Becca, Darcy and the kids arrived, enlisting just about everyone’s help with unloading the main courses from their van.

They had a giant, unbelievable spread before them, and with the kids’ eyes already set on dessert, they’d said grace and gotten started.

Soon enough, wine and warmth lit the dining room with laughter and good food, and the conversation flowed happily. 

“And so the head chef looks at me—” Becca is interrupted by a chorus of laughter, “—no, I’m serious, he looks at me and goes, ‘She wants me to do _what_ with her duck?’, and I swear to God, the entire fucking kitchen loses it.”

Bucky finds himself grinning over at his sister. He was so proud of her—started her family, gotten bumped up to sous chef at the restaurant she’d always dreamt of working at, and got to work with the love of her life everyday.

“What about you, Buck?” George asks over his glass of wine. “When do you get started at the bookshop?” 

“I already have,” Bucky hums, swirling his own wineglass around in his palm. “Should be getting ready for the holiday season this week. I’ve got four new releases ready in time for Christmas.” 

Words of praise and pride come from his family, and he can’t help but smile at them. He was insanely proud of his work. He’d gotten into publishing because it was something he could do at home—and over the years managed to start his own little firm. Nothing big, a few minor releases each year, and only ever one or two of his own works. 

Part of the reason they’d moved to Scarsdale was because of The Woodland Place Bookstore. A friend in publishing had told him about it—it’s run by an older gentleman who’s gotten up there in age and was looking for a successor who would keep up the place. Mr. Lee was a peculiar fellow, but upon meeting Bucky, he’d decided that James wouldn’t sell the bookstore as soon as he croaked, and agreed to let him take it over. 

The family migrated towards the warmer, cozier parts of the house, mainly the living room, and the large-paned glass doors that led to the backyard. Bucky lit the gas lamps on the patio to warm it up before he let the kids out there. 

“You’ve done a good job, Buck.” George stalks up and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Really—I mean it.” 

“Thanks, Dad.” 

“You know what I’m going to ask though, don’t you?”

Bucky takes a breath, glancing back to his sister. She was bent over the kids, helping them light their sparklers. Darcy was in the kitchen with his mother clearing the tables. No one was spare to save him from the conversation he didn’t want to have with his father. 

“Not exactly, but I’ve got some clue.”

Fortunately, George doesn’t make him play twenty questions. “What are you going to do about Brock?” 

He sighs, _far_ longer than he needed to, which puts a little smile on his father’s face. “Nothing. I mean—there isn’t really anything I can do.” 

“The divorce is final then. Nothing left to worry about there?” 

“Yeah.” Bucky nods. “That’s done. We’re legally separated. Have been for a few months.” 

“Good.” He nods. “And you’ve got arrangements for Holly?”

“Yes. He’s still covering most of her expenses.”

“When does he get back stateside?”

“He’s still got fourteen months in Kuwait.” Bucky sighs, scratching his jaw. “Jesus. His kid’ll be eight before he sees her again.” 

“That’s right.” He makes a face, “How old was she when he left?”

“The first time? Four.” 

“Christ.” He sighs, and before he can continue, Bucky’s pocket starts vibrating. 

He pulls out his phone, and low and behold, Brock’s face flashes across the screen. “Fuckin’ hell, Dad. You jinxed me.”

“I’m glad you’ve moved on, James. I’m proud of you.” George claps his shoulder again, and heads back inside. 

With another heavy sigh, Bucky answers the FaceTime call. 

“Hey.” He offers softly. 

“Hey, there.” Brocks gravelly voice rumbles through the speakers. “Listen, I can’t stay long. I just wanted to tell you and Holly happy Thanksgiving.” 

“Sure, let me grab her.” Bucky slides the door open again, and hollers, “Holly, baby? Daddy wants to say hello.” 

She looks a bit torn—excited to see her other father, but also _really_ excited to play with the sparklers. Becca concedes, giving her the first one she manages to light properly and sending her bouncing towards the camera. 

“Hi, Daddy! Happy Thanksgiving!” 

“Happy Thanksgiving, princess!” His voice goes up, and for a moment, Bucky’s heart hitches. “How are you? Did you eat lots of yummy food today?”

“Yeah. Auntie Becks made most of it.” She smiles, looking down at her camouflage-clad dad. 

“Is that right? I bet it was good, then. What did your Papa make? And did you help him?” 

“Papa made pies. I did help—but we haven’t had any yet.” 

Brock laughs, and shoots a big smile that makes Holly’s cheeks go up too. “I’m sorry I can’t stay long, babygirl. I just wanted to check in with you and say hello. How did your recital go?”

“It went good.” She smiles. “My tutu was really pretty.” 

“I bet it was, I’m sure your Papa will send me pictures.” He says, “Hey, now, I love you, alright?”

“I love you, too!” She beams, then shoves the phone back at Bucky, waiting for his permission to join her cousins outside with their sparklers. 

“Go on,” He shoos her, pulling the phone up to eye-level. “Everything good on your end?” 

“Yeah,” He sighs, “Listen, I wish I could talk longer. Send me those pictures of the recital? I’d love to see them.” 

“Yeah, of course,” 

“Alright then. I need to get going. Enjoy the rest of the night, Papa.” 

Bucky doesn’t even get to return the farewell, because the call ends and his phone’s screen goes blank. 

“Papa?” Becca hums, stalking up beside him with a crystal glass of scotch for him. “He still fuckin’ calls you Papa?” 

“Don’t.” Bucky groans, taking it from her. 

She shrugs. “Whatever it takes to keep him in Holly’s life, right?” 

Bucky closes his eyes. “I don’t want to argue with you, Becks. Fuck’s sake. Not today.” 

“Fine. We’ll talk about him later.” She says, “But right now, I’m wondering why your neighbor doesn’t care for drapes.” 

Bucky looks at her, and follows her icy glare across the hedges into the neighbor’s house. There’s a light on—for the first time since they’d moved in—illuminating the rear of the room. It looked much nicer from Bucky’s yard—they could see paintings on the wall and the rest of the well-loved furniture in the room. 

A dog trots into the room and settles right up against the windowpane, seemingly mesmerized by the kids running about with their sparklers. 

Then, a tall, stocky man appears behind it. Bucky can’t see his face, but he can see his frame. The man looked like he was a heavyweight wrestler or something—and he, too, stalks up to the window. 

With the reflection of the kids’ sparklers on his window, Bucky’s view of him is obscured, but he can make out his lower half. He’s barefoot, in a par of faded blue jeans and some sort of sweater. 

Bucky squints to see better—hell, maybe even to _wave_ at his new neighbor, but the shade comes down quickly, leaving the outline of both him and the dog, walking further into the house, backlit by soft orange light. 

Becca looks at her brother and snorts out a laugh “I can’t fucking believe it. All the houses in Westchester, and my brother manages to pick the one next to a mean hermit.” 


	2. The Woodland Place Bookstore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has his first day at The Woodland Place Bookstore and meets our favorite blond Alpha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there friends, 
> 
> I just wanted to pop in before the chapter and say this definitely going to be a slice-of-life kind of story. Very Hallmark-y (except the eventual smut lol). 
> 
> I'll also be taking suggestions/prompts via comments for future fics, so if you've got something you'd like to see written, drop it below and I'll take a look! 
> 
> xx

Bucky hadn’t seen the mysterious neighbor after dinner that night. He caught glimpses of him—a shadow of either him or the dog leaving the living room, or the sound of his car pulling into his garage at night. 

He had half a mind to go over there and meet him properly—but he’d wait until closer to Christmas, when he had fresh sugar cookies and a bit more cheer. 

December had begun, and his contract with Mr. Lee started on the first of the month, which happened to be a Monday. Holly still was off from school until mid-week, so she’d tagged along with him to the bookstore. 

The Woodland Place Bookstore was smack in the middle of the avenue, with a cute little cafe on one side, and a posh little boutique on the other. When they’d first arrived to open, Bucky had quite a start. 

Stan Lee, the founder of the bookstore, was balanced precariously on the top rung of a ladder. Even more concerning, Bucky realized that there was a stack of four, thick hardcover books on that rung, and Mr. Lee was standing _on top_ of those. 

“_Jesus_, Mr. Lee!” Bucky swore, rushing over to steady the ladder. “That’s not safe at all! What if you fell?”

“I knew you’d be here sooner or later.” He grumbles, fetching the books he’s climbed up there for in the first place. “Oh, look, you’ve brought a friend! Is this your daughter?” 

“Yes, she is. Holly, baby, introduce yourself to Mr. Lee.” 

“Hello, Mr. Lee.” Holly smiles, “My name is Holly Olivia. S’nice to meet you.” 

“Well look at you, Miss Holly-Olivia.” Stan smiles back at her, “I see you’ve got some books with you.”

“Yessir.” She nods down at her book. “They’re for school.” 

“Oh poo!” He shoots her a frown, “Well that’s no good! How about I find you a story to read for a bit? I’ve got some of the best stories this side of the East River. S’at alright with you, Dad?” 

“Can I, Papa?”

Bucky nods, watching Holly’s face light up. She follows the old man to the children’s section, and Bucky can’t help but smile at them. 

He, however, was less fortunate. 

Stan might be enamored with Holly, but he’d already made sure Bucky knew exactly what his responsibilities were at Woodland Place. They may have a contract making them equal partners, but Bucky still had to earn his place there.

Firstly, he had to hand letter the chalk signs for the windows. All of them. In a _very _specific font. Then, he had to re-arrange the sale shelves. For some reason, Stan didn’t like the layout of the store being the same everyday. He had a specific layout he preferred for each day of the week, but refused to record them anywhere. 

Bucky got straight to work, though. He managed to knock out the bulk of Stan’s tedious busy work before he’d even finished reading Holly one of his storybooks. 

Stan waddled over, leaving Holly in the little seating area near the back of the shop, and took a speculative look at Bucky’s work before conceding, “Not too bad, kid.”

He couldn’t help the smile if he wanted to. 

“Now listen—we’ve got a few regulars you’ll meet this week. A few of them might come in today, actually.” He hobbles behind the counter, and looks up at Bucky expectantly, “You gonna write this down?”

Bucky scrambles for a pen. 

“Miss Hill will come looking for the scary stuff. Pick out anything new in the horror genres as soon as it comes out. Her assistant will be by to pick it up, Mondays at noon, like clockwork.”

“Hill, horror. Got it.” 

“Look at you with your mnemonics.” He chuckles, “Then around three, a kid will come in,” He gestures to about Bucky’s eye level, “About yea high. Names Peter. He likes the comics up in the loft. He’ll buy the new stuff when it comes out, but sometimes he comes around after school to re-read the old ones.” 

Bucky didn’t understand what small-town nonsense this all was, but quietly elected to listen to Stan. He’d been running a bookstore in the age of digital media successfully, for years now. He had to be doing something right.

“Okay. Peter—comics.” 

“Steve will come by too. Hope you and Holly are good with dogs—he’s got this big army service dog, Hops. Mutt doesn’t ever leave his side, so don’t bother asking him to leash him.” 

“Anything in particular this Steve likes?” Bucky asks, finally noting something useful from Stan.

Stan pauses, looking at him a bit funny. He smiles a little, and nods. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll find what he’s looking for.”

“Got it.” Bucky folds his notes over and sticks them on the pegboard near the register. “Anything else?” 

“No, no.” Stan hums, making his way to the back office. “Oh! Some of your books came in this morning. They’re in the loft. Go ahead and put them out.”

Bucky flipped the sign on the door to the _open _side, and follows Stan’s suggestion. Over the soft, quiet music playing from behind the register, Bucky lost himself in the sounds of stocking copies of his book.

_ The Winter Solider_, _A Novel by J.B. Barnes._

He’s glad he’d gone with the cover he had—an all-black, matte base, with a small, red star in the center, and the title and his name in small red letters. His book was in a few smaller bookstores across New England, and now, it was in his own bookstore. It felt good, touching the spines of a book he’d written, edited and published himself. 

Once he’d switched to breaking down the boxes, his phone started buzzing in his pocket. He yanked it out and balanced it precariously between his ear and his shoulder, refusing to be interrupted. “Y’ello.”

_ “Hey. It’s me.”_ Brock’s voice is a bit clipped, making Bucky fumble with the boxcutter._ “Are you busy?” _

“A little.” He sheaths the blade and folds the box over. “I can spare a minute, what’s up? Is everything alright?” 

_ “Yeah,”_ He sighs, but there’s still something short in his tone._ “I just had to hear it from Antonio—why didn’t you tell me you were moving out?” _

Bucky freezes. “I—I guess I meant to, but just haven’t had a chance.” 

“_What_?” His voice doesn’t rise, but it’s sharper. _“What does that even mean?”_

“You’ve been busy. You barely even have time to say a handful of words to Holls these days. When was I supposed to give you my five-point plan? I told you about the bookstore. I told you about moving to Westchester.” Bucky tries to get a grip on his voice. Why was he so close to trembling?

_ “Yeah, but you didn’t tell me you found a place. Or a school. Or anything. You just packed up my kid and moved out of our house! I just tried to have Toni drop by with some flowers for you—then he calls me and says the place is cleaned out? What the hell, Buck?” _

“Why were you sending her flowers in the first place, Brock? She’s six.”

_ “They were for you, but what does it matter now?” _

Bucky closes his eyes and takes a breath. “It was just a matter of time before we left, and you know that. Why does it matter, anyway? You’re halfway across the world right now.” 

_ “Why does it matter? Are you kidding me, Buck?”_

The bell over the door chimes, and Bucky’s grateful for the interruption.

“Look, I’m working, alright? We can talk about this later.” He hangs up before Brock can answer him. 

Why _hadn’t_ he remembered to tell him? God, he didn’t want to deal with any of this. At least, he remembers, Brock is too far away to _do_ really anything about the situation. 

When he returns from discarding the box, he hears the tap of nails on the hardwood floors. Fortunately, Holly was knee-deep into the book Stan had given her, so she hadn’t seen the dog. She really, _really_ liked dogs. 

Bucky rounds the corner far too quickly and runs smack into the customer. A strong, large hand slips behind his waist and catches him before he could really hurt himself. 

“_Hey_—careful!” A deep, honey-smooth voice gasps. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Bucky scrambles to his feet. 

Oddly enough, the first thing he sees is the dog. Stan was right. That thing was an absolute fucking _unit_. It sat on the floor completely still, and was easily at Bucky’s hip. There’s no vest, no leash, but instead, a thin red collar with _’Service Dog’_ written around it. It’s a giant German shepherd, but in the strangest juxtaposition, it’s got the softest looking golden eyes.

Then, Bucky remembered he’d almost ran over the customer. _Steve_, he remembers. 

“M’so sorry,” Bucky gushes, finally looking up at him. And boy, is he glad he did. 

This Steve—this _demigod_ named _Steve_—was the most handsome thing Bucky had ever laid his eyes on. He has a crop of soft, honey-blond hair, and the most piercing steel-blue eyes. 

Not to mention the rest of him—he was a bit covered up for the unseasonably cold day, but Bucky could still feel the mass of muscle he’d run into like a phantom against his skin.

But the most attractive thing about this man? His _scent_. 

Steve smelled like Irish coffee and cloves, so strongly that Bucky almost thinks he’s probably spilled some on him somewhere for it to come across so clearly. But no, it’s mixed with that strong, Alpha pheromone that makes Bucky just a bit dizzy. 

“It’s fine. You’re fine.” Steve nods, turning down the aisle and abandoning him on the corner. 

Bucky has to blink a few times to make sure he isn’t dreaming. He wasn’t certain until the dog dipped it’s snout down to sniff his knee. 

“Hops, leave him alone.” Steve mumbled, and the dog gleefully trotted off behind him. 

Before he can stop himself, he launches after him, clearly forgetting Stan’s instructions. “Can I hep you find anything?” 

Steve shoots him a look. It wasn’t rude—Bucky could always tell when people were being purposefully rude—but it wasn’t welcoming, either. It felt wary, as though he was sizing him up, the way all Alphas do when they first meet each other.

He didn’t _need_ to, Bucky thinks. It was clear he was an Omega. He didn’t wear scent blockers or take suppressants—he didn’t feel the need to after having Holly—but when Steve takes a deep sigh, he suddenly wishes he did. 

“I think I can manage.” Steve says shortly. 

Bucky nods slowly, “Right. Of course. Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.” 

He turns to leave him alone, but Steve’s voice calls out, “Hey. _Hey_, m’sorry. I could—I could actually use some help.” 

“Yeah?” Bucky asks. “What can I help you find?” 

“I’m looking for a Steven Covey book. I forget the name, but it’s recently come out.” He gestures to the shelves in front of him. “It’s Monday. Usually those kinds of books are over here.”

Bucky feels his face flush. So Steve—and his giant bear-dog—really were regulars. “That would be my fault. I’m just figuring out how Stan likes things around here.” 

Steve smiles at him, a warming, butterfly-inducing smile that makes Bucky want to melt. “That’s right. You must be the new guy he was going on about. He’s very picky about who he let’s in around here.”

“I noticed,” Bucky scrunches his nose up playfully. “I’m James, by the way. James Barnes. I’ve just moved in nearby.” 

“Nice to meet you, James,” Steve offers his hand, “I’m Steve Rogers.” 

Bucky takes his hand, but the dog lets out a warning growl that makes him quickly pull back. 

“Easy, buddy.” Steve reaches down and soothes him. “Sorry. Hops can get a little overprotective sometimes. He doesn’t bite, though.” 

Bucky hums out a little laugh—he wouldn’t get close enough to find out whether that was true or not. “We’ve got the new Covey prints over here.” 

Bucky takes him down another aisle, where he’d seen the self-improvement books. The one Steve was looking for had a bright yellow cover, so he scoops one up and hands it to him. The larger man takes it, gently brushing Bucky’s fingers. 

“Take your time, I’ll be up front if you need anything else.” 

“Actually, this is what I came for.” Steve hums, following Bucky to the register. “Thank you for helping me find it.” 

“It’s my pleasure, Steve.” Bucky smiles, ringing it up for him. Halfway through making Steve’s change, Stan comes down the spiral staircase, holding a stack of Bucky’s books. 

“Holy shit, kid. You tellin’ me you wrote this in a year?” He holds up one copy, “S’good stuff!” 

“Yessir,” Bucky hums, tearing Steve’s receipt off the register. 

“Well I’ll be damned.” He hobbles towards them. “Hello, Steve. You bothering my prodigy?” 

“I sure hope not.” Steve says with a little smile.

Stan pushes his glasses up and takes a better look at him. “Oh, you look so tired! Not sleeping well again?” 

Bucky pauses, for a second, but continues to wrap Steve’s book in brown paper. If this was him when he looked tired, Bucky couldn’t imagine him at full capacity.

“Yeah,” Steve reaches down and touches Hops for comfort. “I’ve got new neighbors. A couple, with kids it seems.” 

“That’s exactly what you need,” Stan hums, fiddling with Bucky’s books. “Last thing you need is to be cooped up in that house alone.” 

Steve sighs, “I’ll meet them, eventually. Although I think I may have scared them off. I haven’t seen any of the kids since Thanksgiving.”

“You scared them?” Stan asks.

“Yeah,” He frowns, “I got home late, and the kids were out in their yard with these little fireworks. You know how I am. The lights—the sounds. Sometimes it sets me off.” 

Bucky felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Sorry—” Bucky blurts out, “You wouldn’t happen to live on Fox Meadow Lane, would you?” 

“I do.” Steve squints at him.

“Shit.” Bucky closes his eyes. “I’m so sorry. Me and my daughter—we just moved into 17 Fox Meadow Lane.” 

The three of them stand there gaping at one another.

Steve’s jaw clicks open, “Oh, _God_. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“No, no—_I’m_ sorry.” Bucky fumbles Steve’s book into a gift bag, “We hadn’t seen anyone over there since moving in—I didn’t really think anything of the sparklers. We had a few left over from Halloween, so my sister and I let Holly and her cousins use them. I’m sorry if they upset you.” 

“It’s fine,” Bucky watches Steve’s eyebrows knit together, and _embarrassment _hung thick in the air between them. “I promise, it’s fine. I’d just had a long day, is all. Everything was fine after I closed the blinds and put on a movie.” 

“Right.” Is all Bucky can manage, as he slides the paper bag across the counter to him. “Well, again, we’re _really_ sorry. I’ll make sure we keep it down, especially in the evenings.” 

“Bucky, why don’t you check on Holly?” Stan mumbles. “I’m sure she’s done with her homework.” 

Bucky nods, grateful for a way out of such a tense conversation. “Right. Yeah. I'm sorry we had to meet like—_this_.” Bucky laughs a bit awkwardly, and excuses himself far too quickly. 

Even though he’d walked out of their sight, he still felt their eyes in his direction. He could hear them, too.

“Nice going, you mean old grinch.” Stan teases.

Steve’s voice pitched low and he grumbled, “Fuckin’ hell. How was I supposed to know?”

“Beats me,” Stan says, “But don’t go scaring him off any more than you already have. He’s a good kid.” And after a moment, he sighs and adds, “He and his daughter have enough on their plate already.” 

For a moment, Bucky’s confused. He wasn’t _wrong_, but he still wondered what he could have meant by that.

_ “Shit,” _He swore under his breath. Stan had probably overheard him talking to Brock on the phone. Dread slipped over his skin in goosebumps, as he realized he’s have to deal with his ex-husband sooner or later. 

“That’s not a nice word, Papa.” Holly hums, stalking up to him with her book in her hands. 

Her hair tumbles around her shoulders in ringlets, and her red overalls had shifted all funny from where she’d been sitting. He reaches down and fixes them.

She looked so content, but Bucky supposed most children were. They didn’t feel their world shake when they ran into strangers—they apologized and continued about their days. They didn’t have ex-husbands they felt the need to shake off, constantly—they have loving parents that they wouldn’t really see fault in for many _many_ more years. 

“You’re right, Holls.” He hums, twirling that stray curl on her forehead back into place. “A very bad word. I won’t say it again.” 

“Good.” She mumbles, patting the side of his face. It puts the warmest smile back onto his face. Over his shoulder, he hears the chime of the bell over the door again, and the tapping of Hop’s nails recede through it. 


	3. Apology Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve talks to an old friend, and sets out to apologize to Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyooo. Got an update for you guys! 
> 
> I hope to update 2x a week to get us to 16/18-ish chapters by Christmas. Angsty feelings coming soon. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> xx

When it came to embarrassing himself, Steve was certain that he’d become a bonafide professional. Most times, it didn’t bother him. He’d gladly taken the stereotype of the grumpy, retired soldier. Today, though, he felt his stomach tighten and his palms grow slick with stress sweat. He hadn’t been shaken like that in quite some time. 

Steve didn’t even bother going home after leaving the bookstore. He took himself up Woodland Place, right to the patisserie chef who’d caused his misfortune, to give her a piece of his mind. 

Honeypot Patisserie was wedged on the avenue between a bistro and a coffee shop. There were _so_ many goddamn coffee shops in this town, Steve muddles their names together quite often. He doesn’t bother tying Hops outside. It’s far too cold. 

The shop smelled strongly of cinnamon; he could smell the other things baking as well—warm sugar cookies and soft gingerbread men—but the sugary, spiced scent of hot cinnamon rolls fills the space the strongest. 

“Steve? Is that you?” A voice sings from the back. 

“Yeah,” He grumbles back, lifting the hinged counter up so he and Hops could cross into the kitchen. 

It’s early enough that none of the other employees had arrived yet—just Natasha and her army of handmade sweets. 

Hops doesn’t hesitate, he quickly trots to the giant pillow Nat kept under one of the steel tables for him, and settles on it. Steve also settles on one of those giant metal tables with a great big sigh. 

“You’re up early.” She hums, shifting the pans around in the giant oven. 

“I went out and got you something.” He sets the bag on the table across from him. “S’that book you were talking about.” 

She lets out a little gasp, and whips around so fast, her thick red curls smack her dead in the face. “Really?” 

“Really.” He hums. He’d come here to complain, but how could he, when she smiled like that over a goddamned book?

“That’s very nice of you.” She peaks into the bag, and then arches an eyebrow. “What is it you want?”

He snorts at her. _There_ she was. “I don’t want anything.”

“Mhm, okay.” She says, “Well what’s making you pout?” 

Steve rolls his eyes without thinking, and quickly catches a whipped dishrag to his elbow. “I’m not pouting.”

He looks down at her—because even if he wasn’t perched on that table, he was still easily two heads over her—and sighs. Natasha had a head of thick, curly, brass-red hair, and a pair of cool emerald eyes—eyes that saw through every one of his little lies. She had cool, pale skin, too—never quite seeming to tan, not even in the heat of Kandahar—and a pair of bowed lips that gave her friends the sweetest of smiles. 

She looks at him with a bit more concern now, “Is something wrong?” 

“I could…talk.” He says. She immediately understands. It was quite difficult for Steve to put his thoughts into words, these days. Fortunately, Natasha understood that. 

“Okay. I can listen.” 

“I just ran into this guy.” He starts, his eyebrows furrowed. “At the bookstore.”

“Ran into?”

“Yeah. Like, _ran_ into.” He huffs, “I caught him, though,he didn’t fall.” 

“Oh.” She blinks at him. “Is he alright?” 

“Yes, Nat, he’s fine. I’m a man not a brick wall.”

“You are quite literally a brick wall. In every sense.” 

“That’s not the point.” He huffs. “Look—he helped me find your book. He’s Stan’s new partner. His name’s James.” 

She can’t help but snort, “And you almost knocked him on his ass before meeting him properly?” 

“Still not the point.” Steve says, “He was—well, he was really sweet.”

She lifts her eyebrows but doesn’t say anything else, which he’s grateful for. It was already hard enough to talk to her about this. 

“Stan mentioned that I looked tired, so I told him about the new neighbors.” He touches his neck, and Hops feels his discomfort, nuzzling his boot. “Turns out, James and his kid just moved into 17 Fox Meadow Lane.”

She snorts again, and this time, she can’t help the fluttery laughs that come out after. She waves a hand, trying to dissuade Steve from getting upset, gasping between laughs, “Are—are you serious? That’s fucking _golden!”_

He glares at her until she’s quite done with her hysterics.

“You almost knocked him on his ass, then outed yourself as his great big grumpy neighbor.” She snorts again, “My poor, poor captain.” 

“I’m glad you find this funny. No one else who was involved did.” 

“M’sorry.” She smiles, “I’m just imagining you bumping into some tiny bookkeeper—it’s a hell of an image.” 

Steve frowns. “He’s not tiny.” 

“Hm?”

“He’s not tiny. He’s actually quite large for an Omega.” 

“He’s an Omega?” She notes. “With a kid? Alone?” 

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask.” He frowns. “Didn’t have time, between almost killing him and then embarrassing the both of us like that.” 

“Oh, Stevie, don’t beat yourself up about it.” She pouts, and pulls out a stainless steel bowl.“C’mon. Is this is Hershey’s chocolate kinda fuck-up? Or a Lindt chocolate fuck-up?” 

“Lindt.” He whispers. 

“Got it.” 

He watches wordlessly as she unwraps a few bars of Lindt chocolate, and fetches her giant chef’s knife to break them down. 

“So, tell me more about this Omega that’s got you all flustered.” She says with a little smile. 

“M’not flustered.” He scoffs, but she cuts a glance at him that makes him clear his throat. “What about him?”

“I dunno.” She shrugs. “What’s he look like?”

“Ah—well. He’s—he’s handsome. Kinda tall. Long, dark hair. These bright, steely eyes—and uh, an arm filled with tattoos.” 

She smiles wider. “Someone was paying attention.” He grumbles under his breath, so she amends, “Not exactly your type, though.” 

He thought about it. Did he even have a type, really? He’s only ever dated soft, tiny Omegas. Mainly, because he had two left feet when it came to dating, and those were the types of people who approached him. He doesn’t think he’s ever even seen a tattoo on any of his partners before, much less an entire sleeve. 

So no, James wasn’t really his type—but somehow, Steve knew he was _exactly_ his type. 

Before he knew it, Natasha was spooning cookie dough onto a silicone baking sheet. 

“I’ll just say it, since I know you’re probably thinking it—fucking your new neighbor is not a good idea.” 

Steve chokes. “What? I wasn’t thinking that—”

“Yes you were.” She grins, setting the cookies in the oven. “You wouldn’t be sitting here all stone-faced and tense if you weren’t.” 

“I just—he seems really nice. I’d like to have _not_ been rude on our first meeting, you know? Considering we’ll be living ten yards away from each other.”

“Mhm. I’m just saying—look at what happened to you the last time you fucked someone just because they were convenient.” She says. Steve gapes at her, but she doesn’t sugar-coat it. She never does. “You wound up married.” 

“I remember, thank you.” Steve mumbles.

“Well, here’s what you do: you’ll take these consolation cookies to him and his daughter, and you’ll apologize for being a bit of an ass. There you’ll have it—a clean slate.” 

“A clean slate.” He tries the phrase out himself. He’d very much like a clean slate with James Barnes. 

***

Unfortunately for James, his day had only gone from mildly embarrassing to full-out panicky. See, Stan was right about his bookstore being quite busy, and at some point before noon, Stan had fallen asleep in his office, leaving Bucky to run the front, receive shipments from the back, and help every customer that came in looking for Christmas gifts. 

He’d gotten himself so riled up, that it was Holly who had to come up to him and remind him that he needed to take her to her school to get her enrolled. 

“Right, yeah. Grab your things Holls. I’m gone, Stan. I’ll be back to close. ” He’d huffed, barely getting his coat on before ushering them both through the door. 

He fumbled through his pockets for his keys, cursing under his breath. Gladly, Holly hadn’t heard him. 

She was, however, gravely concerned by the way her Papa was suddenly so flustered. She grabbed his hand before he stepped out into the street without looking. “Papa?” 

“Yes, darling?” He manages the keys—they’d been in his pants pocket, not the jacket pocket he’d been digging around in. 

“Are you alright?” 

He looks down at her, at the concern filling her big brown eyes. “Of course, Holly.” He pulls her beanie on correctly. “Now, let’s get you to this fancy-shmancy new school of yours.” 

“We have to go home first, remember?” 

“What?”

“My swim stuff. You said to leave them at home.” 

“Shit.” He huffs. Holly didn’t bother correcting him. At this point, even a six-year-old knew a curse was appropriate. “Okay, up-up-up.” He lifts her into her seat, strapping her in. “We’ll go home first.”

“Thank you,” She hums, the way she always does when her Papa straps her into her booster seat. It puts a little smile on Bucky’s lips, the way only his daughter ever could. 

He didn’t drive recklessly, but he did drive a fair bit faster than he normally would with Holly in the car. 

See, Brock and Bucky had come to an agreement. If—_if, _because Brock could not possibly foresee a future where Bucky actually made any of his own decisions—Bucky did move out to Westchester, Holly would go to another private school, and Brock would fund it.

She’s an extremely talented girl—and Bucky didn’t just say that because she was _his_. She excelled in her work, her english arguably more than mathematics, but Bucky couldn’t believe it when her teachers told him she was reading at three grade levels above her own. She danced ballet, and most of all, she loved to swim. 

So, when Bucky stared looking at places to settle in Westchester, he’d found the Lexington School, a private school not far from Fox Meadow Ln. They had an exceptional advanced english program, and extracurricular dance and swimming. Naturally, he’d set things up for her to take their entrance exam as soon as possible.

Holly had made it clear—she didn’t care what school she went to, as long as she got to swim in this season’s timed-trials. So, Bucky had fought tooth-and-nail to get her a try-out for the team. He didn’t give a damn if it was the middle of the season—and he got her one. Right after her entrance exam, so they wouldn’t have to go back and forth. 

They pulled up to the house with exactly eight minutes to get her things and get her to the school, which was six minutes away. Needless to say, Bucky leapt into Papa bear mode. 

“Your swim bag is in the kitchen, I want you to grab it and your water bottle from the pantry, okay?” He orders. Holly nods, and darts in as soon as the door unlocks. 

Bucky sprints down the hall to fetch towels from the linen closet, where he remembers he hadn’t gotten around to unpacking the big swim towels yet, just the bath ones. With a grunt, he yanks the box open and trifles through it, finding a big, pink, swim towel. 

That took far longer than he had hoped. Holly was already out front, waiting for him to unlock the car. 

He turns to re-lock the front door and realizes that it would take an absolute miracle to get his kid to this damn exam on time—but he freezes when he realizes Holly is talking to someone. 

“He’s a very handsome dog, mister.” She giggles, and Bucky hears the shake of a dog tag on a collar. 

Spinning around, he sees his neighbor, and for a moment, he completely forgets about elementary schools and entrance exams and swim meets. 

He’s wearing less clothes now that the temperature had gone up. Instead of a heavy, puffer jacket, he’s just got on a thick-looking green flannel, and a pair of black jeans that had dog hair on his right leg, where it seemed Hops lived. 

“That’s how he got his name,” Steve says, smiling. “He gets very excited sometimes, and hops around like a little bunny.” 

“That’s really cute.” Holly laughs.

“Mr. Rogers,” Bucky says, folding the towel over his arm. 

“Oh, no. Mr. Rogers is my dad. Please, call me Steve.” He says with a beautiful smile that makes Bucky’s gut wobble. “I don’t mean to keep you back, if you’re in a rush.” 

“No,” Bucky says before he can even think, “Well, yes, a little rush. Is—is there something you needed?” 

“No, no.” He sighs, “I just wanted to apologize. I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot. So I brought an apology. Or rather, a dozen apologies.” 

Bucky finally notices the box tucked under his arm. Its got a neat little label on the front—_Honeypot Patisserie_.

“That’s—well, that’s really nice of you, Steve. Thank you.” Bucky says, taking the yellow box from him. “Holly, what do we say to Mr. Steve?”

“Thank you?” She guesses. She hadn’t really been paying much attention to their conversation. Instead, she’s got her tiny hands in Hop’s thick fur. 

Bucky almost asks if that’s alright, but Hops is flopped over on his side, with his tongue lolled out, having the time of his life. 

Steve clears his throat. “You’re welcome. I hope I can make a better impression on you both, sometime.” 

Bucky jumps to assure him, “That’s hardly necessary.These things happen, you know? I’m just grateful you’re alright. We’ll make sure we keep the sparklers to the side yard next time.”

Steve looked like he was going to apologize again, but Holly interrupts. “Did my sparklers upset you, Mr. Steve?” 

“Oh—no, well—”

“I’m sorry if they did.” She rises to her feet and gets a better grip on her swim bag. Hops looked quite abandoned. “Sometimes, they upset my Daddy, too.” Steve looks up at Bucky, but Holly amends. “Oh, not that Daddy. My other Daddy.” 

Bucky felt responsible to explain, so he does, in as little words possible. “He’s—he’s a soldier. Ex-special forces.”

"I can't see him very much anymore." Holly hums, a little frown on her lips.

Bucky felt a peak of embarrassment again, "Because he's _away_, Holls." 

“I see.” Steve says, his voice a little different now. “I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Holly, but I can assure you, your sparklers won’t bother me too much, alright?” 

“Good!” Holly smiles. “Papa, I think we’re going to be late. Bye, Mr. Steve.” 

Bucky glanced down at his watch. The exam started at four. It was 3:56. “We are definitely going to be late.” He opens the car door for her, and sets the box in her lap. “Thank you for the cookies, Steve. Um—I guess we’ll see you around?” 

“Yeah. Absolutely.” Steve waves, and starts off towards his home. He looks a little wary, and Hops is still looking towards the car, but Bucky sees him disappear through his front door.

He took a minute to check his mirrors, his seatbelt, and his breathing. “Okay, Holls. You ready?”


	4. Swim meets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holly makes the swim team, and Steve sleeps in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii. It's been far too long, lol! Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, if that's your thing. Bare with me, it's finals season on these sides, (which means it's 4.0 study season) and so I'm a bit pressed for time. I'm also ~suffering~ (que dramatica) from a pretty shitty cold, too. Gotta love seeing family and all of their germs over the holidays, huh?
> 
> This is definitely a filler chapter until I can figure out my pacing and tone for the rest of this fic. I had an outline, but it definitely needs some revision. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy & stick with the fic!   
xx

Bucky got Hope to the school on time. People in Westchester seemed a little bit more lax with time frames than people in Brooklyn. 

“Three, two, one…go!” A heavy voice calls from across the open space. The mass of spandex-covered kids go flying into the giant pool, head-first, and suddenly, the empty space is filled with the sound of splashes and whistles. 

Holly seemed content with her performance on the entrance exam, which was all Bucky could ask for. She was far more excited for the swim meet, though. He could see it on her face—she wore that look of sheer determination, one Bucky recognized immediately as her other father’s. Brock would get that same look on his face whenever something didn’t go his way. 

Hell, the first time Bucky had ever seen it was when he’d first shot Brock down. They couldn’t have been more than seventeen—Brock had licked his lips, flicked those gorgeous chocolate eyes down Bucky’s lean frame and drawled out, _“How about you and I go for a ride, handsome?” _

Of course, Bucky had blinked up at the alpha all sweet, and then, with a little smirk, told him _exactly_ where to shove it—and Brock had gotten that look, where an eyebrow went up, his eyes narrowed down to dangerous slits, and his lips tilted up in a smirk. Brock had made it his mission, right then, to woo Bucky. 

And surprisingly, he did. 

For a little while, at least. 

Bucky let out a sigh, and cracked open that yellow box of cookies. He didn’t bother looking at the other parents in the bleachers. They didn’t seem all that impressed by the giant, long-haired, single dad, who was eating chocolate-chip cookies at five in the afternoon. 

_ “Not that Daddy. My other Daddy. I can’t see him very much anymore.”_ Bucky heard his daughter’s voice in his head. It tore at his heart, making him inhale another cookie. 

He hates making things this difficult for Holly. There were things she didn’t understand—things she _wouldn’t_ understand for quite a few more years, if he could help it. 

He turns his phone over in his hand and sighs. _Fine. _He would have to deal with him eventually.

After a few quick taps, the line is ringing, and Bucky is looking down at the screen, waiting for a camouflage-clad Brock to pick up. 

He does pick up—but he’s not in uniform. Instead, his hair is ruffled, his chest bare, and the sheets around him unmade. 

“G’morning, sunshine.” He groans. 

“Shit,” Bucky closes his eyes, “I forgot how late it is for you. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re fine.” He hums, “Always got time for you and Hope, Bucky.” 

“Right.” Bucky whispers. He isn’t sure why that made him feel warm inside. “I'll be quick. I wanted to apologize—I should have told you about the move the second I’d decided on a house. You have a right to know where Holly is, no contest. I’m sorry.”

Brock lets out a sigh, one that was less annoyed and more dismissive. He did that far too often these days—make a great fuss about something just to seemingly forget about it in mere hours. It sapped whatever soft feeling Bucky thought he was experiencing right out of his system, leaving nothing but the patience he needed to coparent efficiently. 

“Yeah,” Brock shifts in his sheets, exposing a bit more of his front. “Doesn’t too much matter, now, anyway. Is she at least settling in well?” 

“Yeah. We’re at the new school. She took an entrance exam today, and now she’s trying out for the swim team.” Bucky flips the camera over just in time to catch Holly plunging off of the diving board.

Brock pulls the phone closer to him so he could see better. Unfortunately, it meant that Bucky got a closer look at him, too. He could see the combat-worn plane of his chest, marred over from humvee shrapnel and knives alike. He remembered what that chest looked like when they’d first gotten married—smooth and untouched by the lifestyle that soon consumed them both.

“Look at her fuckin’ go.” He grins, showing a set of perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. “That’s my girl.” 

Bucky tears his eyes away long enough to see Holly pull herself out of the pool, having gotten across it first. 

“I should have done a better job checking in with you.” Brock sighs, pulling the sheet up. “I’ve just been—” He sighs, “—_really_ caught up over here.” 

Bucky flips the camera back. _It’s not your place, _he thinks to himself, _at least, not anymore._ Brock reads the look on his face and smiles. 

“It’s alright. You can ask me, Buck.”

“Are you taking care of yourself?” Bucky blurts.

Brock smiles. “Not the greatest care, but yes.” 

“Are you eating?” He bites his lip. He couldn’t help it—it was in his _bones_ at this point. Taking care of people was part of his goddamned DNA. Taking care of Brock had become second nature. He needed him to be around—for Holly, if not for himself.

Brock’s smile widens. “Not as much as I was when I had you feeding me.”

Bucky makes a face. “You’ve got to eat.”

“I know.” He pouts. “I know. I do, I promise.” 

Bucky glances up and sees Holly, wrapped in her neon pink towel, amidst all the other students as they listened to the instructor’s parting words. 

When he glances back at the screen, feeling a little swell of pride in their weird, strange family dynamic, he intends to ask Brock if he wants to say hello to Holly; but instead, his eyes drop to the corner of the screen, where Bucky clearly sees something move under the sheets beside Brock. 

He focuses his eyes on it, and Brock notices, trying to shift the camera away. He clears his throat and asks, “You think she made the team?”

“Brock.” Bucky says, his temper bubbling. The question lingers in the back of his throat. He wants to ask it—but he doesn’t want to know the answer. “Is there someone in your fucking bed?”

The Alpha sighs out a great big breath, and runs his fingers through his hair roughly. 

“Oh _God_,” Bucky almost gags. “We’ve been talking about our _kid_ in front of someone you just had _sex _with?” 

One of the mothers a few rows down from Bucky looks disapprovingly over her shoulder, but Bucky doesn’t even look at her. 

“She’s asleep.” Brock says, as if it made any part of this better. 

“You’re disgusting.” Bucky says through grit teeth. 

“I know—you remind me often enough.” 

Bucky felt his anger rising far too quickly. He needed to get a hold on it, _now_, because he knows exactly how this ends—Brock is too far away for this anger to have any real resolution, so he’ll only end up feeling passive-aggressive for the next few hours and the only person around to absorb that aggression would be Holly. So, he takes a deep breath.

“Text me to let me know when you’re ready to say goodnight to Holls.” He bites the last bit_—Holls_ instead of _us—_and hangs up well before Brock could respond. 

Holly waddled over with all the other kids dispersing to their parents. She's tucked expertly in her giant towel, and her swim bag is slung over her tiny shoulders. She blinks up at Bucky for a few seconds, as if weighing the options of asking what she wanted to. Quietly, she whispers, “Was that Daddy?” 

“Yes,” Bucky answers, trying to keep his voice even. It still comes out tense, and Holly notices. “He’s a bit busy, though. How’d you know?” 

She shrugs, “You only get upset like that when Daddy calls.” 

Bucky only manages a little smile. His kid was too smart for her own good. God, he hopes this gets easier.

“Let's get things figured out, huh? So we can get you home to a nice, hot shower and some warm pajamas.” 

***

Steve woke up much later than he’d intended to. He’d wanted to grab some coffee before his trek to the gym, but at half-past ten, he didn’t even want to _think_ about running anywhere. 

So, he woke up slow. Stretching long limbs against soft linens, flopping his pillow over the cool side and inhaling the soft cotton-y smell. 

At the first hint of him rousing, though, he was interrupted. Thick, dark fur suddenly clouded his vision, and a rough tongue scrapes his brow. 

That was Hops-speak for _“Up. Now.” _

“Five? Just five more minutes, Bud.” He groaned. 

A heavy paw settled on his cheek. 

“_Hops_.”

It almost sounded like he was answering him, but when Steve didn’t respond back, Hops rose up on all fours and shook himself so hard that the bed moved, too.

“Alright!” Steve gives up, flinging the sheets off of him. 

Content with his wake-up job, Hops trots off towards the kitchen. 

Steve, however, is much less content. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and forces himself to sit up.He blinks a few times until his eyes can focus on the floor. 

_ Fine, Hops, you win._ He’d get up, but only to feed him. He wouldn’t like it, and he wouldn’t get dressed for it, either. 

His robe was somewhere in the closet, and he couldn’t be bothered with finding it. So, he shoves himself up, wearing only a pair of boxers, and pads to his kitchen. 

Hops sat, quite obediently, at his dish. So Steve bent over and snatched it up. 

“D’you know how much more sleep I’d get if you would just eat food I didn’t have to defrost?” He mumbles, rummaging through the fridge for Hop’s fresh food. 

Hops, obviously, doesn’t answer him. Instead, he glances out through the sliding door, towards the Barnes’ yard. 

Steve follows that glance, and sees what probably caught his attention—movement, off to the right.

For the first time since the Barnes’ moved in, Steve’s getting a good look at their place in the morning light. He’d been so busy lately, leaving for work early and getting home late, that he hadn’t quite seen the way the early light floods into their house. 

It meant that from his living room, he could see in James’ living room and kitchen—at least, in this light. Anytime in the afternoon, the sun would have shifted so that they’d be in opposite positions, with Bucky being able to see through Steve’s house instead. 

Hops had noticed it first—James, dressed for the day, meddling with something in the cabinets. 

Slowly, he peels his eyes back to Hop’s dish. It felt weird, borderline voyeuristic, to peek over at his neighbor like that. 

Of course, he knew it was just going to be like this for a while. Neither of them could exactly put curtains up in front of the glass doors to their decks—so they’d catch glimpses of each other, at least, until the hedges between their yards got tall enough. 

“There you go, you spoiled brat.” Steve grumbles, setting the dish down in front of Hops. Obediently, he waits for Steve’s ‘_Eat.’_ command before approaching it. 

And Steve doesn’t even mean to, really. His eyes just snap up again, over at James, and he’d looked up just in time. 

James shifted like he was bracing for something to fall on him, and sure enough, about a five-pound bag’s worth of what seems to be flour, falls off of the shelf, and all over him. It streaks his long, brown hair white, and covers the front of his black shirt. It’s all down the front of his arms, too, covering most of the tattoos on his left side. Almost like a culminate insult, the torn sides of the bag slip down, too. 

Steve snorts so loud, he frightens Hops. 

He expected to witness a curse or two—maybe even a bit of a annoyed, adult tantrum—but James surprises him. 

The man _smiles_. 

A big, genuine, _‘well, fuck. whaddaya gonna do?’_ sort of smile, topped off with a defeated little shrug. 

Steve finds himself leaning against his island, completely transfixed. There was something far too interesting about James Barnes. Some kind of magnetism Steve didn’t understand yet. Something that stirred things in him that he’d sworn he buried ages ago. 

“Well, fuck.” Steve finds himself murmuring. His face felt hot, his chest and shoulders pink with embarrassment. 

Maybe he _would_ go for that run. 


	5. Firewood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve sees Bucky again at the bookstore, then offers him some firewood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wellllll, I really did want to get through this fic before the New Year, but I've got a few other on-going projects getting in the way. It'll get finished, but most likely won't be completed (and uploaded) before January. 
> 
> If you've been keeping up with me and this fic, thank you! I've got lots of fun stuff lined up for 2020! 
> 
> Hopefully I'll have another update on Christmas, and one more before New Years, but I'll make no promises, haha. 
> 
> xx

Sam was giving him that look. You know. _That_ look. 

The one that your friends give you when you’ve accidentally let something slip, or said something off-the-wall. Except, Steve hasn’t said anything crazy, at least, he hadn't thought he had.

“You what?” Sam blinked. 

Steve reached under the table for Hops, who nuzzles his palm. “I just think it would be nice.” 

“It would be nice.” Sam says wearily. He takes the white coffee mug in his hands and brings it to his lips. “I just…didn’t know you were being _nice_ these days.” 

“I’m nice!” Steve gasps. Sam lifts his eyebrows but quietly sips from his mug. “Sam. I’m nice.” 

“You haven’t exactly been happy-go-lucky lately.” Sam hums. “But carry on. Tell me about this party.”

“I think it would be nice to welcome him to the neighborhood properly, you know?” 

“Of course.” 

“The house on the other side of him is a seasonal rental—it’s empty this year. So he’s just got me and the Parkers across the street.” 

“I’m not too far from you guys either.” 

“Neither is Stan, or Natasha.” Steve gestures, “So what if we—I don’t know—threw him a house warming party. Or something.” 

There it was—that look again. 

“And he’s got a kid?” 

“Yeah. A daughter.” 

“Husband?” Sam peaks over his mug. 

“Don’t think so.” 

“Hm.” 

“_Sam_.” 

“No, no,” Sam says with a little smile. “I’m not going to say anything.”

“It’s just a house warming party.” Steve insists. 

“Of course.” His smile widens.

“Sam!” Steve groans.

“Let me guess,” Sam smirks, shifting himself to the waitress could take his plate. “This neighbor of yours—easy on the eyes?”

Steve scoffs, but a little blush tints his collar. “I’m not even going there with you.” 

“I’m just saying!” Sam laughs. “I’m glad you’re doing better. It’s good. You look good—better, at least. You’re sleeping well?” 

“A little bit better.” Steve frowns, “The cold…helps.” 

Sam smiled a little, knowing smile. He got it. Hell, the nightmares that kept Steve awake most nights also kept Sam up. 

“I’m glad.”He whispers, then grins. “Do you plan on actually talking to this super-hot neighbor of yours again?” 

A few days had passed since Steve had offered up his chocolatey apology, but he hadn’t seen much of the Barnes family. 

He caught glimpses of them coming home in the evenings sometimes, but since he hadn’t spent much time home himself, he’d missed the opportunity to catch up with them again. 

And for some reason, one he didn’t completely understand, that disappointed him. 

“Hopefully.” Steve said after a moment. 

“Good. Well—set up the welcome party. I’ll get Tony and Pepper to join us. I’m sure they’ll be happy to get Morgan a little friend in the neighborhood.” 

Steve couldn’t help the smile that caught him off guard.Sam only laughed at him.

***

So, Steve wasn’t _trying_ to run into him when he left breakfast. He just _happened_ to be on Woodland Place. He liked the coffee from the that one coffee shop that _happened_ to be near the Woodland Place Bookstore, even if he did just have some with Sam. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself. 

When he walked into the bookstore, with a coffee in each hand, he was only slightly disappointed to see Stan behind the counter. 

“He’s not here yet.” The old man hums, flipping the page of his book. 

“Good morning to you too, Stan.” Steve smiles at him. 

Hops ducks under the counter to settle at his feet. Stan reaches down and pets him without tearing his eyes from the page. Then, he takes one of the coffee cups from Steve’s palms. 

“Morning? It’s not morning. It’s almost half-past noon. Which means he’s late.” 

“I see.” Steve nods down at the book. Stan seems to be more than half-way through it. “What you got there?” 

Stan turns the book over and skims a finger over the matte material, “One of the kid’s books. Not half bad, honestly.” 

He looks down at the cover. A single, red star. _The Winter Soldier_. “What’s it about?” 

“Two old friends, caught on either side of a war.”

Steve’s eyebrows go up. “They have to fight each other?” 

“At first they do—until one of them recognizes the other.”

“What happens when he realizes it’s his old friend on the opposing side?” Steve’s eyebrows furrow together. 

Stan looks up with a sharp smile. “The book’s $10.99. Aisle three.” 

The two of them erupt into laughter, and almost miss the tinkering of the bell over the back door. Steve almost misses him, his view interrupted by some sparsely occupied bookshelves. Through them, he sees Bucky shuffle in, wearing far more layers than the weather demanded. 

“Good morning!” The Omega calls, shrugging out of his coat and settling it on the coatrack. 

“It’s after noon.” Stan calls back. 

Bucky glances at his watch and curses. “Right. Sorry, I’m late.” 

The bell chimes again, and a kid—no more than seventeen, Steve thinks—comes in behind him, holding two cups of coffee. He slips one into Bucky’s palm, “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Barnes.” 

“Yeah, of course, kid. You can call me anytime. ‘Specially if that Flash kid needs his ass handed to him sometime—” 

The two of them round the corner side by side—and come fully into Steve’s view. It's May Parker's nephew, Peter, with him. Bucky’s eyes settle on Steve’s—only staying there for a second though, then they dip down his frame, an almost appraising glance.

“G’morning, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Lee.” The kid says with a smart smile. 

“Mhm, hello, Petey.” 

“Morning,” Steve offers up a little smile, and Bucky seems to blink himself back to the moment. 

“Hey, Steve.” He nods, an adorable little look on his face—as though he knew he’d been caught looking. 

“Steve’s not gonna help you stock the new arrivals, pretty boy.” Stan murmurs, still perusing a page of the novel. 

“Of course.” Bucky smiles, ducking through to the side room, presumably where those boxes were. 

“Have you got to be so mean to him?” Steve teases. 

“Have you got to be so nice to him?” Stan’s eyebrow goes up, and Steve feels himself blushing. 

“Give us a minute? You can work him to death in five, I promise.” 

Stan yawns. “Mhm, sure.” 

Steve dips around the corner to see Bucky, leaning over a giant box of books—his books. Rows on rows of _The Winter Soldier _sat in the fresh box Bucky had probably just cut into. Steve only barely saw the books, though—he’s distracted by the way Bucky’s curls fall into his face, and the lean, inked hand that reaches up to push it behind his ear.

“James?” 

He jumps, and a soft, frightened “_Fuck_,” fell through his lips. 

“Sorry!” Steve squeaks, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Bucky’s surprise melted seamlessly into a soft little smile that made Steve want to melt, too. “Hey, Steve.” 

“Hi,” He whispered—what had he come back here to do again? God, Bucky’s smile made his knees weary. He doesn’t know what to say, so he settles on, “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” He says with a heavy breath, one Steve didn’t know how he knew, but he knew it was covering something. “We’re getting used to the new house, and Hope’s settling in at school, so things are going good.”

“Glad to hear it,” Steve nods. 

“How are you?” Bucky asks with a little smile. 

Steve blinks at him for a second, forgetting how words worked. “How am I?” 

“Yeah?” He smiles wider, folding over a pad of brown box paper in his hand, “How have you been?”

Steve didn’t hear that question often anymore. Only ever from his friends and his therapist, and both meant it the same way—‘_are you eating?’ ‘are you sleeping?’_ and the like. 

“I’m alright. Busy, but alright.” He shifts his stance. 

“Good!” 

“Yeah,” Steve finds himself smiling now, too. “Listen, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” He hums, leaning on one of the shelves gently. 

“Would you like to meet some of our neighbors? I’m having some of them over this weekend, and I’d be happy to have you and Holly over, too.” 

Bucky’s smile damn near _sparkles_, “We’d love to join y’all. So far, I’ve only met you and Petey’s aunt across the street.” 

“Great, I’ll let you know what we figure out.” 

Bucky’s tongue darts out—just the tip of it—to touch his lips before he nods, “Good! I’ll see you around, then.” 

“Yeah.” Steve smiles. 

Their conversation was over now—which meant he had to walk away. Yet, he found it hard to. Even after Bucky leaned over to clear the packing peanuts away, Steve’s gaze followed those intricate lines on his arm for just a second longer. Then, he forced himself to turn away.

“Stan,” Steve calls, a little spring in his step. “What’s your weekend look like?” 

“For you? Busy.” 

“Make a little time?” He clicks his tongue, and Hops follows him to the door. “Saturday night—say, six? My place. I’ll have Nat bring a chocolate cake.” 

The older man’s eyebrow arched at the sound of that; Natasha made a _mean_ chocolate cake. 

He looks as if he’s considering it, before conceding with a great big sigh, “Fine. Only for the cake, though.”

Steve shot him a wink as he dove through the door. 

***

At the end of the day, Bucky felt spent. He’d been putting off a lot of the heavy-lifting that needed to be done around the shop, but it’d caught up with him.  He spent the day lifting, unloading, and re-packing boxes and boxes of books; and honestly, it made him wish he’d spent a few more hours in the gym lately. 

“Alright, Barnes, you’ve earned your keep.” Stan hums, concern—for the first time he’s heard it, Bucky thinks—evident in his tone. 

Bucky was balanced on a ladder, much like Stan had been on his first day, chucking sealed boxes of inventory into the attic space. 

“I’m almost done.” Bucky huffs, shoving the boxes around. 

“Kid, get down from there before you hurt yourself.” Stan taps his boot. “You’ll be no use to anybody if you throw your back out.” 

Bucky looks down at him. Behind those aviators, dare he say it, concern etched its way across Stan’s eyes. 

Begrudgingly, he climbed down. 

“There.” Stan dusts off his shoulders. “Now you’ll be able to pick that darling daughter of yours up without being in pain.” 

A smile tugged Bucky’s lips up slowly. “Right.” 

Stan’s eyes linger on on Bucky’s arm for a moment, so Bucky stretches it out for him to get a better look. 

“You like my ink?” Bucky teases.

“Could you imagine, your arm is probably worth more than this store?” 

Bucky snorts. “No, tattoos are expensive, but not _that_ expensive.” 

“Mhm,” Stan hums, his weathered hands turning Bucky’s over. “I’ve never liked tattoos, but I've only ever seen some of the local kids going around looking like glorified coloring books.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh.

“But this,” Stan pauses, looking down at the giant rose that covered his inner forearm. “This looks like art.”

Bucky stills—this is the first compliment Stan has ever given him. They’d had days of ridicule and barked instruction together, but no compliments. He almost shivers. 

“Thank you, Stan.” 

Like he caught himself being nice, that frown finds him again, and he claps a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Alright. Go on, get.” 

“You don’t want me to close?” 

“No. I’ll do it.” Stan waddles back to the counter. “I’ve got Pete to help me, anyhow. Go spend time with your kid.” 

Bucky smiled at him—a big, wide _Bucky_ smile that almost reaches Stan. 

“Get!” Stan grumbles, “Before I change my mind, kid.” 

“I’ll see you on Monday!” Bucky called, grabbing his coat, “Bye Pete!” 

“Later, Mr. Barnes!” Came from the loft, where Peter was undoubtedly re-reading old comics. 

Stan settled behind the counter, and picked up Bucky’s book again. A warm feeling settled in his gut. _T_ _hat kid is a ray of sunshine,_ he thought to himself.  Even a grumpy old man couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him.

_***_

Bucky always found himself in these sorts of situations. 

A short day at work? Wonderful! That meant he could get home and get Holly’s gifts wrapped before he had to go get her from swim practice. 

_ And_, he would finally be home to sign for his UPS package. The poor delivery guy had been by three times now, and Bucky had missed him each time. He was 90% sure that it was his new kitchen mixer—as much as he loved Buddy and his Brooklyn movers, they’d _definitely_ broken his last one in the move. 

Yet, the mystical forces of karma had come along to try his patience yet again. 

There he was, on the living room floor, with a giant dollhouse box sat atop an expanse of wrapping paper.

One foot held down one loose corner, the other kept the roll steady. One hand held the box centered, and the other desperately tried to cut the paper in a straight line. 

Of course, halfway through the cut, the doorbell rang. 

“Delivery!” Came from behind the door. 

“_Fuck,” _Bucky dropped the tape he’d been holding between his teeth, “M’coming!” 

Inverted like he was, and as far away from the door as he was, there was no way he’d been heard. He forced the scissors down the sheet of paper—ripping it, of course—and tossed them down, defeatedly.

Sprinting to the front door, he yanked it open to find the cardboard _‘Sorry we missed you!’ _door tag on his door-knocker. 

The UPS truck was still on the street though—but by the time he’d made it to the driveway, it’d turned down the side-street. 

“Well, shit.” He huffs to himself, reaching into his mailbox. There were a few little letters and a couple of coupons he’d never use. 

“He’ll be back around six.” A voice off to the side calls. 

Bucky spins, faced with a sight that almost made his knees give out. 

Steve Rogers in standing on his front lawn, holding a big, red axe. Bucky had to blink a few times before he registered that this was _not_ a wet dream, but indeed, real life. 

It’s pretty warm out for the late afternoon—so he’s just in a tight gray t-shirt, and a pair of dusty Levi’s—holding a _goddamned axe_. 

There’s a pile of freshly split logs at his feet, and Hops seems to be content laying on the grass behind him. He’s holding the tool with a firm grip, but yields it as though it weighs nothing, gesturing in the direction the mailman had gone. 

“Don? The UPS guy? He makes another round, at six.” 

“Right,” Bucky whispers, unconsciously pulling each side of his cardigan closer to his chest. That’s right—Bucky had become a full-fledged old man after having Holly. He wore cardigans. The big, cuddly ones, too. They may not be the most attractive thing, but he liked them, and Holly liked them, too. 

Yet, he felt oddly exposed right then. As though he were giving away a little piece of something private to his strangely attractive neighbor. He had to say it to himself internally: _Steve doesn’t give a fuck if you wear cardigans, Bucky. _

Steve chucked the axe into the stump and took a big breath. Bucky couldn’t help but watch his broad chest rise and fall. 

“You’re a hard guy to catch up with,” Steve smiles, “Don’s missed you, what, three-days now?” 

“Four,” Bucky scrunches his nose up. “Between the shop and Holly’s swim meets, we haven’t been home during the day.” 

“Oh,” Steve nods. Then, he shrugs down at his handiwork. “You gotta fireplace over there?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky furrows his eyebrows until he processes Steve’s follow-up question before it comes. “Oh, no, we’ll be fine on firewood, Steve.” 

The Alpha arches an eyebrow at him, making Bucky bite the inside of his lip. 

“You sure? I’ve got more than enough for me, here.” Steve says. “And I’ll be chopping all afternoon to get some over to May and Stan.” 

“Well,” Bucky shrugs. “I was probably just going get some pre-cut logs from Home Depot.” 

Steve makes a disapproving face—well, that was putting it mildly. Steve made a face that suggested pre-cut Home Depot firewood was sacrilegious, and that makes Bucky chuckle. 

“You’re taking some firewood, Barnes. If you make me leave it in your driveway, I will.” 

“Alright,” Bucky smiles, “Thank you.” 

“S’no problem. Told ya, I get firewood ready for a few folks on this street.” 

Steve bends over, giving Bucky a gratuitous look at his ass in those jeans—round and full in that way Alphas always were—and Bucky can’t decide if he’s aroused or jealous. 

_ But he shouldn’t be either_, he remembers, and quickly looks away.

When Steve straightens up, he’s holding a handful of cut logs, so Bucky walks him over to his front door and lets him in. 

“Off to the left,” Bucky instructs, watching Steve deftly take the logs over to the fireplace, and set them down neatly on the log rack. 

“You haven’t used this since moving in, have you?” Steve leans over, inspecting the fireplace. 

“No, we haven’t uh, had an opportunity, yet.” Bucky mumbles. 

Truth be told, he had no idea how to work the damn thing. Brock’s apartment had an electric fireplace. It had a _remote; _all he had to do was press a few buttons and the thing roared to life. His parents had gas heating—so he’d never actually encountered a fireplace he had to put actual wood planks into. 

It couldn’t be that difficult, could it? You put the wood in and light it. Boom, fire. 

“Well, it needs a priming before you do set out to make a fire.” Steve says, fiddling with something inside the brick fireplace. “Looks like your damper might be broken.”

“The damper?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, the damper. It’s not opening wide. Maybe the panels have come loose—” He looks up to see that Bucky looks thoroughly confused. “I’m not making sense at all, huh?”

Bucky offers a little smile, “Sorry—I’m not familiar with these things.” 

“S’no problem—I can fix it for you, if you’ve got the time?” 

This close, enclosed in this space that was all his and Holly’s scents, Bucky could smell him better.  Splotches of sweat clung to his collar and sides, and Bucky could smell his scent—warm warm whiskey and sweet cream. _Bailey’s, _Bucky thinks to himself, the bastard was really walking around smelling like _fucking_ _Bailey’s_. 

“James?” Steve asks. “Everything alright?”

He snaps his eyes up—they’d been focused on the split at Steve’s collar, at the little blond hairs that were slick with sweat. 

“Bucky.” He stumbles out. “Everyone calls me Bucky.” 

“Bucky,” Steve says gently, trying the word out. Bucky watches the pink tint of his lips and can’t help but wonder if that pink ran anywhere else. “I like that. Your middle name?” 

“Yeah.” Bucky says, far too shakily for his liking. “Bucky—Buchanan.” He catches a glimpse at the clock behind Steve and swears. “Shit. I’ve got to go get Holly.” 

Steve points at the fireplace. “Y’sure you don’t want me to go ahead and fix the damper?” 

“Ah,” Bucky felt his cheeks burn. Steve had already been so nice to him—‘_I’m sorry’ _cookies, inviting him to meet the neighbors, and giving him firewood—he didn’t want to take advantage of this neighbor’s kindness. “I really don’t want to leave her there too long. She hates being the last kid picked up.” 

“Sure. Yeah, I get that.” Steve smiles, “My old man always forgot to get me after baseball.” He gestures to it again. “Just don’t forget to get it fixed before you prime it, or you’ll have a house filled with smoke. Any handyman should be able to do it. Or, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” 

“Got it. Thank you so much, Steve.” Bucky whispers, walking him back to the door. “I’ll let you get back to work before it gets too dark. Thanks, again, for the firewood.” 

Steve puts up a large hand and smiles, “S’my pleasure, Bucky.” 

Bucky swore he could melt. 

“Right. Well, I’ll see you around, then?” 

“You bet.” Steve smiles wider. “Take care. Hope you catch the mailman when he comes around again!” 

Bucky watched him walk away—at the broad plane of his back, and the way it tapered down into the slimmest of waists and the roundest of backsides. Then, catching himself, he all but slams the door.

“Fucking hell,” Bucky murmured to himself. 

With a sigh, he leaned against the wall; his chest felt all tight, his mouth dry and his hands all shaky. Just standing near that handsome bastard made his reproductive system go haywire.  He hadn’t paid much attention to any Alphas after Holly was born. He couldn’t—he’d had a child, and was still living with Brock, even if they’d separated. There was no room for other men. But now?

Well, now, he was safe and happy in a new home, far away from his old Alpha, and his daughter was old enough to understand that people coupled together.

Maybe his body was beginning to understand that his circumstances have changed. 

He was responding to Steve’s scent, whether he meant to or not. That sweet scent of Bailey’s still sat high in the air, intoxicating him without him taking a single sip of it. _God_, he wonders, _ I wonder if he tastes like it, too?_

With a wave of his hand through the air in front of him, swatting at the scent he knew would linger there all evening, he pushes the thought away, and snatches his keys off of the key-hook. 

_ Holly_, he reminds himself_. _She comes first. She _always_ comes first. 


	6. Welcome Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky meets Sam Wilson, then has a bit of a fireplace snafu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, it's been a minute! i feel like my entire life derailed and then abruptly got shoved back onto the tracks in the span of two months. anywho, with spring break coming up, I hope to bang out a few chapters of this fic. no promises tho—we all know how me makin update promises ends up.
> 
> also sorry about the kinda-cliff hanger ending here, the chapter was just getting too dense and needed to be broken up! xx

Steve had gotten up bright and early to get his place ready to receive guests. Not that he had much to do—once Tony had found out his daughter Morgan could have a new potential friend for playdates, one that didn’t live _half-way_ across town, he’d gotten a _bit_ excited. 

The Starks had sent over their handyman, who had quickly set things up outside. He’d gotten through their lengthly list fairly quickly, too. He put a few posts up in the back yard and strung some lights across them, through the bare trees and through to the house. A few standing heat lamps were unloaded, too. He brought boxes of party supplies from the Starks, which meant Steve felt a little useless in his own home.

Steve helped, though, following Mrs. Stark’s instructions to a tee.Once they’d finished, the place looked fit for a decent holiday party. Tinsel and garland, sprigs of holly and mistletoe—it was quite a show. 

Shrugging out of his gloves, he shakes the handyman’s hand, and sees him off through the side-gate. From there, the angles lined up just well enough for Steve to get a glimpse over at the Barnes residence. 

He could see a bedroom, with a _ginormous_ bed. Well, perhaps the bed itself was averagely sized, but the sheer mass of pillows and blankets that decoratively adorned it only added to its illusion of height. 

It had been made—which makes Steve think it’s a guest room, but the blinds hadn’t been open a moment ago. Then, the most delicious sight Steve thinks he’s ever seen steps into the sunlight beaming through the glass. 

James—_Bucky—_is standing there, looking like he’d stepped straight out of Steve’s dreams. He looks beautifully undone—and Steve quickly looks away. 

_This is perv-y, _he tried to tell himself, yet his eyes snapped right back up to his handsome neighbor. 

He’s wearing plaid pajama pants. 

_Just_ plaid pajama pants. 

They ride low on his hips, and are so long that they pool around his feet. 

His chest is bare, save the colorful tattoos on his left side. Steve could see them well now. They weren’t just on his forearm—they creeped all the way up his shoulder and capped off on his left pec. 

His hair, wildly curly and just a bit frizzy from his sheets, skims his collar in big, bouncy brown curls. 

_This is perv-y, and you should stop. This. Is. Perv-y. _

He’s holding an oversized mug, no doubt filled with coffee, and is peering out the window into Steve’s yard. His eyes glance over the decorations, and Steve swears he sees him smile into that mug. 

Holly, bouncy and oddly happy for so early in the morning, bounces her way into frame and tugs his free hand. The two of them disappear further into the house. 

Finally, Steve lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He whistles, and Hops bolts through the house and to his side. 

“Hey, Buddy.” Steve grumbles, trying to shake the excitement out. He was certain, under all these layers, his skin was flushed—and not from being bundled up all morning. “You want to go for a walk?” 

Hops howls in response—but it’s damped by the sound of the Barnes’ sliding doors opening. Steve peered over the hedge and smiled. Bucky was wearing a shirt now—or rather, that big cuddly sweater from yesterday, and had yet to abandon his morning coffee. 

Holly dives into what little fresh snow was still on the ground, balling it up in her little hands. At Steve’s feet, Hops started wagging his tail. 

“Morning, neighbor!” Bucky smiles, and it’s bright and brilliant and _God_, Steve needs to sit down. 

“Morning!” 

“Holly,” Bucky calls, and the little girl pops up at the edge of the hedge with a grin. 

“G’mornin’ Mr. _Roooogers_.” 

“Good morning Miss Holly,” Steve mirrors her politeness. “Excited about the snow?” 

“Yes!” She beams. “I wish there was more.” 

“There probably will be,” Bucky stalks up to them, resting a hand on Holly’s curls. “The weather is so odd this year. It’s been warm for a few days, but it’s supposed to snow again, late tonight.” 

“Really?” Steve hummed. He hadn’t checked the weather for the day. “Heavily?” 

Bucky shrugs, then mumbles into his coffee, “Couple of inches. Not until late, though.” 

“Oh, good!” 

“Yeah,” Bucky smiles, then raises a lean finger off of his mug, gesturing behind Steve. “I like the look. Didn’t peg you for a tinsel kind of guy.” 

Steve grins out at him. “You teasing me, Mr. Barnes?” 

He shrugs, giving a little shake of his hair. “Just a little.” 

Steve only looks at him for a long moment. He looks so handsomely plain—and he meant that in only the nicest of ways. His nose and his cheeks were pinking in the open air. In his sweater and his pajama bottoms and _bedhead_, he was still a kind, smiley guy. 

And his scent, good _God_, his scent. He smelled like sugar and vanilla and warm fucking blankets. _Good Lord. _

“Oh, uh,” He clears his throat, a blush rising up his cheeks. “This isn’t actually my doing. The Starks up the street are responsible.” He shifts his weight. “I went to school with Tony, and his wife Pepper has an eye for design.” 

“That she does,” Bucky says, and Steve swears he sees his eyes flick down his front. 

“They’ve got a daughter, too. About Holly’s age. Her name is Morgan.” 

“Hear that Holls? Sounds like you’ll meet a new friend tonight.” 

“Mhm. Sounds nice.” She mumbles, and when they both glance down at her, she’d got her little hands through the hedge. On Steve’s side, he can see that she’s got her tiny fingers in Hops’ fur. 

“C’mon, Holly, you’ll get to see Hops again tonight.” Bucky grins down at her, watching her straighten up and dust her hands off. Hops whines on the other side of the hedge. “Right Steve?” 

“Of course.” He nods, “You two enjoy the rest of the morning.” 

And like that, Bucky and Holly made their way back to their home. 

Steve didn’t want to admit it, but he spent the rest of the morning thinking about soft brown curls and flannel pajama pants.

***

Bucky didn’t admit it—he _wouldn’t_ admit it—but he definitely had butterflies in his belly as the day went by. 

Those fluttery little feelings kept him distracted, even if he were only spending the weekend at home with his daughter. 

They spent the day bundled up on the couch watching TV; some BBC documentary about Arctic animals. Truth be told, Bucky was falling asleep for most of it, only getting up sporadically to top off their hot chocolates. Holly was deeply entertained, though, and Bucky was content seeing the curiosity in her eyes as she learned about snowy owls. 

As the afternoon progressed, they switched off the TV to begin making cookies for party. Sure, things got a _little_ messy, but that was more Bucky’s fault than Holly’s. How that kid had such a steady hand for icing sugar cookies was _beyond_ Bucky’s understanding. 

Eventually, with cookies cooled and iced, showers taken and outfits picked out, there wasn’t much else to do but head out. 

Bucky saw the lights at Steve flick on, and the warm glow of the outdoor gas lamps, and soon enough, a few people began arriving, too. 

He’s standing in his bedroom, switching aimlessly between ‘_tie? no tie?’_ when he hears the front door click open.

“Alright you asshole. I know you’ve moved to safe, fun suburbia, but you still need to lock your freaking doors.” 

He wandered out into the living room, where his sister had apparently just entered. She sees the look on his face and changes her tune.

“Oh God, are you panicking? Why are you panicking?” 

“I’m not panicking!” Bucky frowns, “And don’t say that too loud. I don’t want to scare Holls.” 

“Right.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder and smoothes her dark jeans out. “Well, what’s wrong? Why are you _not-_panicking?” 

It’s a stupid question, but he asks anyway, “Tie?” 

“No. No tie. What are you? Sixty?” She makes a face. “Are you freaking out about a tie? Buck, what the hell?” 

“It’s not the tie,” He admits, huffing out a breath. “I dunno, I guess I’m just nervous.” 

“About meeting your neighbors?” She arches an eyebrow. “You’ve already met a few, haven’t you? They’ve been nice so far.” 

“May Parker is a doll. Her nephew Peter is, too.” Bucky mumbles. “Steve ended up being really nice, too.” 

She glances over at the kitchen, where the cookies are still setting. “You even made cookies? Jesus, Buck. Your suburban neighbors will love you. Let’s go.” 

“Should I change?” 

Becca looks over at him, but only after shamelessly stealing a cookie. He’s got on a brown cashmere sweater over a white dress shirt, and a pair of smart black jeans. 

“You look a bit like a substitute professor.” She snorts. “But I like it. Let’s go. Holly!” 

“Auntie?” Holly patters down the hall to meet them. She, too, mirrors Bucky’s color choices. She’s got on a cute corduroy skirt, and an adorable ruffled top. 

“Oh, don’t you look precious!” Becca grins, scooping her up and ruffling her hair. 

“Thank you!” She rests her head on Becca’s shoulder, glancing over her father. “You look handsome, Daddy.” 

Bucky felt a swell of pride and grins out at the two of them. “Thank you, Baby.” 

That was more than enough to make Bucky shake the nerves. They bundled up the cookies and started off. 

Steve’s house was a lot like theirs—Scarsdale was mostly French-Tudor style architecture—the front of his home half-timbered, with loads of delicate brickwork. 

Warmth radiated from the house in the most delicious way, and delicate laughter and soft chatter seemed to reel the three of them in. Holly, bouncing and bubbly as always, jogs up and pressed the doorbell. 

Seconds later, the door swung open, and a flustered-looking Steve opens the door with a huff. When his eyes settle on them, though, a big, beautiful smile takes over his lips. 

“Hey!” He smiles—and dare Bucky say it, he looked _relieved? _“You made it!” 

“You aren’t exactly across town, are you?” Becca murmurs behind him, so Bucky elbows her. 

“Hey, Steve.” Bucky smiles, but Steve _definitely_ heard her jab, grinning at her. “This is my sister, Rebecca.” 

“Nice to meet you, Rebecca.” Steve smiles, stepping aside to let them in. “I’m Steve Rogers.”

“S’nice to meet you, too, Mr. Steve Rogers.” She hums, taking in his entryway. “Nice place you got here.”

“Ah,” Steve stumbles then, rubbing his hand across his nape. “The Starks—they live just up the street—they, uh, handled most of the decorations.” 

“Ooh,” Becca murmurs. “I see.” 

“We’ve, uh, got drinks and snacks set up in the kitchen, and heaters in the back yard, so it shouldn’t be too cold out there, if you need a breather.” 

“Mhm,” Becca nods, “What a gracious host. C’mon, Holly.” 

She doesn’t stick around though—she _immediately_ makes a bee-line for the refreshments, dragging Holly with her—perusing the display with a keen chef’s eye. Oddly enough, she looked impressed. 

“I’m glad you decided to come, Bucky. I’ve got some good people for you to meet tonight.” Steve’s voice comes from behind him, so he turns to look at him again. 

He’s smiling, and it looks warm and inviting, so Bucky smiles back. “That sounds great.”

Then, his eyes lift over his shoulder, settling unhappily on something there, “G-give me one second?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky turns, following where the Alpha ran off to. 

A tall, slender blonde had just come through from the backyard, with a displeased look on her face. Bucky couldn’t hear their conversation, but he definitely could tell the tone—neither of them seemed happy. 

Then, that thing that always happened to Bucky at parties, _of course_, happened. 

He’d brought not one—but _two_ people along with him tonight, and they’d both abandoned him. Holly, he understood. She was six—Steve had a dog. His sister, however, had gotten deep into conversation with a short, spritely woman with bright, red hair. From the smile on Becca’s face, he knew they were probably talking about food. 

That’s not to say he didn’t _try_ to mingle. As a matter of fact, he’d met the Starks. Tony and Pepper were the sort of couple that everyone dreamed about being in. Well-dressed and just _dripping_ with love for each other—and their daughter, Morgan, was the sweetest thing. She and Holly were sat in Steve’s living room, playing a hand game over Hops, who contently sat in the middle. 

A few more people had come to say hello. May brought her friend Harold over, who was also friends with the Starks. Peter apparently worked part-time at Tony Stark’s office, and he brought his Uncle Rhodes over to meet Bucky, too. Even Stan came around nursing a tiny plate of chocolate cake, croaky and complaining about it being past his bedtime. 

Steve, however, was being pulled in every direction by just about everyone else at the party. Ever so often, he shot Bucky an apologetic look, but the Omega could only smile at him.

Eventually, another person came along, too. 

“You must be James.” The voice is smooth as crushed velvet. _An Alpha_, Bucky can already tell. “Hi, I’m Sam. Sam Wilson.” 

“Nice to meet you.” He replies, “You can call me Bucky. No one calls me James.”

Sam is tall—like, _Steve_ tall—and devilishly dark and handsome. He’s got gorgeous brown eyes and full lips tilted up in a handsome smirk. 

“Bucky,” He seems to test it. “Well alright then, Bucky. I’m Steve’s best friend. We served together in Kashmir.”

“Oh, nice,” Bucky blinks out at him. He knew Steve was a soldier—of course he did, that was the first thing Stan had told him about the man—but hearing someone else repeat it made him shiver just a little. Sam didn’t seem to notice though. 

“Natasha? She’s talking to your sister—she served with us, too.” He nods over at them. “She opened a patisserie after getting back, and I got into occupational therapy.” 

Just then, Steve re-enters the house from the patio—that blonde from earlier on his heels. They settle in the kitchen, arguing in muted voices.

“I’m an editor.” Bucky offers. The last thing he needed to do was bore the only person to make casual conversation with him. “I work with Mr. Lee at Woodland Place.” 

“Editing?”

“Manuscripts, mostly.” He answers. “Sometimes magazine editorials.” 

“You write, too, though, right?” He asks. “Stan has gone around convincing us all to pick up your new book.” 

A hot blush crawled up Bucky’s neck. “Well, I’ve just put out a novel, yes.” 

“Humble,” Sam hums out the tease with a gorgeous smile. “I like you already, Bucky Barnes.” 

His conversation with Sam slowly turned into something comfortable. He found himself leaning easily against the wall, lulled into a pleasant daze by the way the Alpha told his stories. He’d heard about _‘Stevie’_ and _‘Tasha’_ in their time in service, stories of hot summers and long days spent playing cards for the better tasting MREs. 

Fortunately, Bucky knew a little bit about that life from Brock. He could tell that it impressed Sam when he didn’t have to dumb down military jargon for him, and kept honestly, that’s what their conversation light and friendly. 

At first, Bucky thought the Alpha’s pheromones were placating him nicely—but it wasn’t until he refilled his glass had he realized the cider was _hard_ cider. That fuzzy feeling in his gut wasn’t just the cinnamon coming off of Sam, it was the spice of the alcohol.

He kept his cool, though, trying not to make it obvious he was such a lightweight. 

“What’s Steve do now?” Bucky asks, and Sam grins at him, like he’d been waiting for him to ask about the blond Alpha. 

“He’s into music.” Sam says, as though he’s trying to undersell it. “These days it’s mostly producing, but as long as I’ve known him, he’s been into making music. Independently now, though he used to write for that label.” 

Sam gestures to the artwork on the wall, and Bucky finally realizes that it’s a plaque. Not the flashy ones that artists get, though. A simple one, mostly statistics, set in a heavy black frame. Songwriter credits, from a label Bucky faintly recognizes.

“Wow,” Bucky blows out a huff of air, “I would have never guessed.” 

“Yeah. You know, he brought this beat up old ukulele with him when we deployed. I’m sure he still has it, somewhere.” 

Over Sam’s shoulder, he spots him. He was still talking to that woman—still looking angry as before, only now, even Bucky could tell that his patience was waning.

Sam casts a look over at them, and turns back to Bucky, sympathy allover his expression. “Has he even made it over to you, tonight?” 

Bucky felt that blush rise again, “N—No? But that’s alright. He seems—_busy_.” 

Sam clicks his tongue, “This whole thing was supposed to be Steve welcoming you to the neighborhood, officially.” 

Bucky blinks at him. “I—”

“—_Shit_, he didn’t tell you that, did he?” Sam groans. 

“No? _Well_, he invited me over to meet you all. I just assumed there was, y’know, a party already happening.” 

He’s sure his entire neck is pink now. Judging by the way Sam’s lips tug up, he’s certain. 

“Alright,” Sam attempts to save the conversation, “I’m quite enjoying your company, so let me save you anymore boring chit-chat with anyone else.” 

The Alpha huddles a bit closer, setting his arm on Bucky’s shoulder, and angling them so they could see the rest of the room. He begins pointing people out—most of them he’d already met. 

Pointing deftly at Becca, “The man talking to your sister and Tash? That’s her husband, Clint.”

“Clint. Got it.”

“And that handsome bastard talking to May is my boyfriend, Riley.” He hums possessively. “He’s cute, but he’s a hell of a pain in my ass.” 

Bucky can’t help but snort. 

“Oh, you like that? I have a feeling the two of you will get along far too well.” Sam laughs at him, then covertly points at Steve. “The she-demon hogging my best friend is Sharon.” 

“Mhm,” Bucky tries to stay neutral. 

“No, you can be honest.” Sam whispers, “We’re not too fond of her anymore, either.” 

“I don’t even know her, Sam.” Bucky laughs at him. 

“She’s Steve’s ex-wife.” Sam finally explains. “She’s, uh, not the _nicest_ of people.”

The liquor made him feel brave enough to ask, but by nature he still cushions it with pleasantries, “Then pardon my asking, but, if you all don’t like her, why is she here?” 

“Because, my dear Bucky,” Sam sighs, “that big, blond dumb-ass of ours is not the best at letting people go.” 

The intimacy of where this conversation had gone, paired with the liquor swimming in his system made Bucky’s head spin. Sam’s words weren’t lost on him either—he understood Steve’s predicament all too well. 

_But_, his mind got caught on the way ‘big blond dumb-ass of _ours_’ sounded. Just the content of this conversation was oddly personal, filling the Omega with an odd sense of familiarity he knew was unwarranted. 

Just then, Holly appeared below him with heavy eyelids and a droopy smile. She was all tuckered out. Morgan had fallen asleep on her father’s shoulder not too long ago, so Bucky knew Holls wouldn’t be too far behind. 

“Hey there, princess.” He whispered, “Looks like someone’s ready for bed.” 

She only nodded sleepily. 

By the time he’d slung her up into her arms, Becca had begun making her way over to them, too.

“Well, Bucky, if I didn’t despise the suburbs, I might consider making my way out here, too.” Becca hums at them, then grins wide at the third party. “And you must be Sam!”

“Uh oh,” Sam jokes, shaking her hand, “Someone spinning yarns about me already?”

“Only your friends, so I doubt they’re yarns.” She winks, then makes a smug face. 

“I should get Holls home.” Bucky murmurs as she burrows her face deeper in his neck and hair, getting as far away from the light as possible. “Before she’s too asleep to get into her pajamas.” 

“Of course,” Sam says, but Bucky can see a hint of disappointment in his voice. “Let me walk you guys over.” 

Bucky quickly refuses—they were _literally_ next door—but Sam just mumbles about feeling bad about Steve having been occupied all evening; and well, Bucky didn’t want to open that can of worms, so he allowed Sam to walk the three of them the few yards over to their place. 

They said goodnight, and Becca helped Bucky get Holly ready for bed, with only one or two comments about him still having the alcohol tolerance of a college freshman. 

With Holly bathed, clothed, and blissfully asleep in her giant princess bed, Bucky tried his best to convince Becca to spend the night. Of course, she just complained about having to be at her restaurant in the morning, and hopped into her car. 

From the front door, Bucky could see what seems to be the last of the party-guests leaving Steve’s place. Sam had become the interim-host, ushering people to their cars and waving goodbye. 

It was clear to Bucky now that Sam and Steve were cut from the same cloth, brothers in way more than just arms. He’d noticed it over the course of the night—the two of them share some of the same mannerisms so seamlessly that it was impossible to tell which of them had learned it from the other. 

He thought that about far longer than he should have, honestly. Sam’s stories still lingered in his head, and Bucky was having a hard time doing much more than imagining Steve, sweating buckets in just his cargo pants, in the sweltering Kashmir sun. 

But then, his mind swings to the blonde woman—Sharon. They would have still been married then. If they hadn’t been arguing all night, Bucky would have admitted how attractive they looked together. Gorgeous heads of straw-colored hair, long-legged and fair. 

They were probably one of the most good-looking couples Bucky had ever seen. Although, if he were being honest, that list had gotten most of its entries tonight. Tony and Pepper Stark were gorgeous, too. Clint and Natasha had that super-stoic and absolute-goofball dynamic going for them, and they seemed absolutely endearing. Sam and Riley were also an attractive couple with their wide smiles and whispered jokes.

He settled on his couch with a heavy, loud sigh. 

Being alone never bothered Bucky, but there was something about leaving a party filled with couples and their co-mingled, happily combined scents that viscerally made Bucky crave company.Like muscle memory, he thought of Brock and his fingers twitched for his cellphone.

“Fucking hell,” He murmured to himself, and ran a frustrated palm down his face. _Brock was never a good idea. _

Maybe he needed to put himself out there, maybe even start dating again. It would be hard, he knew; a partner didn’t just need to be enough for him, they needed to be good enough for _Holly,_ too. 

He couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. He didn’t want to think about that anymore. The evening might be over, but there was still work to be done—he had a few manuscripts with nearing deadlines.

So, he flung himself up, tied his hair back, and grabbed his laptop and scratchpads, electing to settle in his living room rather than his office. 

The ambiance was set—another mug of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows and whipped cream, his cozy cardigan and socks, and The Office playing quietly on TV for background noise. 

The only thing missing? A fire. 

The night had brought the promised severe dip in temperatures, and as much as Bucky loved the open-concept living areas, the central heating vents did _fuck-all_ to keep them warm. 

So he did what any millennial does when they’re faced with an adulthood task they’ve never encountered. 

He Googled it. 

In an instant, he had a video up with step-by-step instructions; and in another instant, he’d gotten things started. 

Kindling? Got it. 

Reversing the chimney’s air flow? Easy, he thinks. 

Newspaper torch thing? Done. 

And just like that, there was a fire crackling in his fireplace. The log slowly began to burn, having caught from his expertly placed kindling.

Just when he started feeling a little smug, he realized his vision was hazy. 

No, the _room_ was hazy. 

The hotter the fire grew, the more smoke came off of the log, and for some reason, it wasn’t going _up_ into the chimney, but rather slipping over the grate and into the living room. 

It isn’t burning hot enough to really do much damage, and even if the flames are well-contained behind the grates, it’s still a _fire_ and Bucky felt the prick of fear at the base of his spine.

“_Fuck,” _Panic sweeps over him, and before he could even think of an appropriate reaction, heavy knocks sound on the front door. 

He sprints over to it—hopefully Becca had forgotten something and doubled back for it. She was _far _more capable of handling a fire than he was. 

But of course, it wasn’t Becca. 

So Bucky’s stood, gaping out at Steve Rogers, like a fish out of water, for a solid few seconds before the urgency of the _actual fire_ in his house resurfaces. 

“Is—is everything okay?” Steve narrows his eyes down at Bucky. He’d started apologizing for being a bad host earlier, but seeing Bucky’s panic, quickly shifted gears. “Oh, _no_,” 

Steve’s eyes settled behind Bucky, where the haze had gotten a bit thicker now. Fear, in earnest, struck Bucky again, and his instincts screamed at him to get to Holly—even if it was a completely isolated fire. 

Instinct seems to get to Steve too, because he bolts into the house and reaches _into_ the fireplace, yanking at something Bucky didn’t even realize was there. It burns him, Bucky thinks, because he hears him curse quietly, then the sound of metal scraping against itself. 

As though he’d done some absolute witchcraft, the foggy white smoke starts moving up into the chimney, rather than across his living room. 

“So,” Steve hums, shaking the ash off of his forearm. “If your damper wasn’t broken before, I _definitely_ just broke it.”  Steve says, taking a cautious step closer. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. That was—that was just a little scary. Thank you—”

“—No—well, I mean, you’re welcome—I’m just glad I decided to come over and apologize.” Steve says gently. “You uh, forgot about the damper.” 

“I did.” Bucky closes his eyes, embarrassed. “It completely slipped my mind.” 

“You should be alright—just get it repaired before the next cold front.” Steve reassures him, “The draft shouldn’t be too bad until then.”

Bucky blinks at him, still processing what had just happened—his adrenaline was still at its peak, so much so, that he was barely picking up the scents in the room. 

Bucky’s scent was still panicked, slowly returning to its fresh cotton and vanilla bean sweetness. Steve’s also was strong, warm Irish cream and hints of something smokey—or perhaps that was the woodsmoke currently settling into every surface in the room—and _o__h fuck, Steve was in his house_. He'd just decided to block the blond bastard out of his head and _boop!_ There he was—God, _look_ at him, all blocky height and soft eyes. 

Maybe it was all the adrenaline still at work, but he felt the air knocked out of his lungs at the realization that Steve Rogers was definitely in his house, and had potentially just saved his—and his kid's—life.  Looking out at his stupidly bright golden hair and his gorgeous blue eyes—paired with the influx of hormones the Alpha's sudden presence was evoking, the whole scenario makes Bucky's mouth run dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, shameless plug, my beta/bff Laur and I are on twitter now, primarily posting BNHA stuff, but I'll probably get around to posting my shorter stucky/marvel things there eventually, too. @/kaacchaann xx


	7. Late-Night Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve talk into the wee hours of the morning, and Bucky's heat comes a-knocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit. It's been a minute.
> 
> Let me just start by saying I hope you all are being safe during these crazy times, & staying isolated (if possible) and healthy. 
> 
> I realize that I kinda just dropped this fic in late February there, huh? Well, I'm on quarantine for a little bit here so I'll be doing some work on it. Bear with me as I re-acclimate to the plot and the versions of these characters, please!
> 
> Comments & kudos are deeply appreciated! xx

“I wanted to apologize.” Steve says, his voice smooth and genuine. “I completely bailed on you tonight, and that wasn’t fair of me. I hope you still enjoyed yourself” 

“No, no,” Bucky jumps in, “It’s fine, you’re fine! We had a great time, really! I met the Starks—and Sam was easily the sweetest person there.” 

“Yeah,” He rubs the back of his neck. “I saw you with Sam in the end there. I can only imagine the kind of stories he told you.” 

“All the good ones, I promise,” Bucky smiles. His heart felt like it was thundering in his chest, but he still manages, “Would you like a cup of cocoa? For your trouble? It’s the least I can do.” 

“Ah, I wouldn’t want to interrupt you,” He frowns, gesturing at Bucky’s notebooks and laptop abandoned on the couch. 

“Please, let me thank you properly, Steve.” Buck nods.

For a brief second, a tinge of pink appears on Steve’s face, but he nods, “I’d appreciate a cup, then.” 

With still-shaky hands, Bucky makes them both fresh cups, and they settle on stools at the kitchen island, just barely a foot apart from each other. 

“Do you normally work this late?” Steve eases the conversation away from pleasantries. “Must be hard, with Holly and all.” 

Bucky shrugs, “No, not normally. I’ve just got a few deadlines coming up, so it’s a bigger workload.” 

“Right, gotcha.” Steve nods. “I _am_ really sorry about Sam, though,” He laughs, “He can be quite a lot sometimes.”

Bucky tilts his head, “Really? We were fine, tonight. He’s quite charming, and it was nice having someone so sweet to talk to, honestly.” 

And maybe Bucky’s imagining it, but there’s a twinge of annoyance in that delicious scent, but it’s gone as soon as he recognizes it. 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs a bit, “I’m sorry I didn’t make it over to you two. I kept getting pulled into conversations faster than I could get out of them.” 

“Steve,” Bucky offers a little laugh to ease the blond’s tensions, “It’s alright, I promise. Sam’s a pretty cool guy, I’m glad I got to get to know him.” 

There it is again. That hint of something jealous that makes Bucky’s head swim. 

“Right,” Steve says, turning the mug’s handle to his opposite palm.

Bucky knows how this ends—Steve’s too nice to say anything outright, so he clears his throat and nods, “Holly’s birthday is coming up. Christmas Eve. This time of year is always so much fun for her,” He glances down the hall in the direction of her bedroom.

“Really? Christmas Eve?” Steve’s brows go up, “Lucky kid—presents two days in a row.” 

Bucky laughs, “Yeah, she always has a good time”, then he sighs, “My parents though, they won’t be able to make it up this year.” 

“So just you, Holly and your sister this year?” 

“Yeah. How about you?”

“Either Sam or Natasha always drag me home with them, but this year it looks like I’m on my own.”

“Oh,” Bucky nods. _Don’t you have family around?_, he wanted to ask, but he snaps his lips shut and offers a little smile instead,“Don’t worry, I’m sure Holls and I will bake _far_ too many cookies. You’ll have us around.” 

Steve smiles back, and it’s bright and beautiful and makes Bucky _literally_ gasp to himself quietly. Heat rose up his cheeks, and he can’t help but look away. 

“Will uh, Holly’s other Dad be around?” Steve asks quietly. Bucky’s eyes snap up to Steve’s, making the blond stumble, “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep. She just—she mentioned him last time I saw you guys.” 

Bucky took a breath of that sweet scent again, and well, he couldn’t hold on to the tension in his shoulders when it hit his nose. 

It fizzled out and he shakes his head, “No, he’s overseas. Kuwait.” 

“That’s right. Marine Corp. Sorry if I overstepped there, Buck.” 

And Bucky’s brain starts swimming at the nickname. “Alright, Rogers. I get a question too, then.” 

Steve smiles, “Sure,”

“The blonde woman at the party tonight—she was the only person I didn’t get to meet.” 

Steve stiffens and Bucky _immediately_ regrets mentioning her. 

“Sorry, should I have not—”

“No, no you’re fine,” Steve says, deflating a little. “That’s uh, that’s Sharon. Sharon Rogers. My ex-wife.” 

“Oh,” 

“I’m sure Sam told you all about that.” Steve sighs.

“No—” Bucky jumps to assure him, “Not—not everything.” Bucky puts a warm palm on his arm, “It’s alright, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Steve.” 

“It’s fine.” He squints down at his mug, at the marshmallow bobbing at the surface. “We got married young, I enlisted, we didn’t last.” 

Bucky gives his forearm a little squeeze, and smiles when the blond looks up, “Believe me, Steve. I know how that feels.” 

“My friends can’t stand having her around anymore,” Steve chuckles lightly, “But I’m sure you noticed that.” 

Bucky shrugs, still smiling.

“We went through a lot. When I came back I was different, and she just couldn’t handle that.” Steve shrugs again, leaning into the warm touch of Bucky’s hand. “I guess they never quite forgave her for leaving.” 

“I can tell they really care about you. Especially Sam. He seems like a really good friend.” 

“Yeah, Sam’s a pain in my ass, but it’s comforting, knowing he’s on my team.” 

_I think I’m on your team, too, _Bucky can’t help but think. 

They sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, before the conversation kicks up again, quiet and pleasant. 

Turns out, their exes were a lot alike. Brock liked control to the point that he made most decisions without ever consulting Bucky, and apparently, Sharon did the same to Steve, especially when he’d first gotten back. 

Steve didn’t normally open up about that part of his life—Sharon, and those few months back in the States. Acclimating had been hard, so hard that most people wouldn’t understand it even if he tried to explain—but Bucky did. 

He’d been on the other end of things, holding a shaking husband through fireworks, sleeping with the ceiling fan in the middle of hundred-degree summers because it set Brock off at night. 

He got it. And so Steve didn’t have to cherry-pick what he said, he could just _say_ it. 

The conversation shifted back to their exes, and their divorce proceedings. Bucky had been fortunate—he didn’t even need a lawyer.

“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a divorce going so smoothly.” Steve grins at Bucky. “Sharon took—well Sharon left me with my dog and my goddamned _ukulele_.”

Bucky snorts, which makes Steve laugh, too.

The brunet sighs, “We have responsibilities now. One big one.” He smile fondly at the thought of his baby girl. “We just aren’t kids anymore, you know? Why subject ourselves to the fighting and the toiling if we just don’t love each other like we used to?” 

Steve stalls for a second, looking at Bucky with an odd look in his eyes. They’re closer somehow now, after chatting for so long. 

Their arms are both leaning on the countertop, clutching cold empty coffee mugs. 

“I know exactly what you mean.” Steve whispers. 

It takes Bucky a quick second to realize his eyes were raking over Steve with far too much _something_ behind them, because something warm and possessive starts coming off of the Alpha. 

He notices a little smudge of ash near Steve’s hairline, and chuckles, “Jeez,” he swipes his thumb over the mark, “You’ve got ash from the fireplace on you.” 

Steve just about _melts_ into the touch, letting out a breath that was suspiciously close to a moan. 

The little act had brought them even closer—Bucky realizes that if Steve just tilted his head down a bit, he could kiss him. 

And suddenly, he _really_ wishes he would. 

Like he’d read his mind, Steve slowly began inching closer. 

Then, a loud scratching on wood makes Bucky jump clear off of the stool.

Steve’s scent goes strong and alert immediately, then fizzles out as they both realize what’d went on. In the dead quiet of the night, Hop’s paw on the front door sounded a lot like a psycho-murderer trying to get in.

Bucky darts to the door to let the dog in, and Hops stalks through the doorway in long lean strides, settling in front of Steve, almost as if to say,_ ‘Are you fucking forgetting something, Steven?’_

“I think he’s upset with you,” Bucky tries to hide his smile.

“I think so.” Steve tries to pet him, but he just gets up and heads to the front door again. “Oh yeah, he’s mad.” 

“Oh my God,” Bucky gasps, looking up at the clock on the wall. “Its four in the morning. I’ve got two hours before I’ve got to get Holls up for school.” 

“Of course, yeah,” Steve nods, getting up, “Thank you for the cocoa. And the conversation. It was…needed.” 

Bucky can’t help himself. He touches Steve’s shoulder as he walks through the door, “Any—uh, anytime, Steve! Goodnight—er, good morning?” 

“Good morning,” Steve agrees, turning to follow a giant, miffed, German shepherd all the way home. 

***

The week goes by disorientingly quickly for Bucky. So many things were happening that he was having a hard time even functioning. 

For starters, Holls had joined the school _right_ around their midterm point, which meant exams. Just why the _fuck_ they had six-year-olds taking exams, Bucky didn't understand. Holly didn't seem even slightly perturbed by this development, but that didn't stop her Papa from freaking out, wondering if he'd prepared her well enough for whatever arbitrary examination they would put her through. 

Then on top of that, the weather had shifted. It was getting weirdly cold for December, which led into the largest of Bucky's problems. _Steve_. Cold weather meant more neighbors to chop firewood for. That meant Bucky got a gratuitous amount of looks at Steve's rippling muscles as he worked, heard a downright _sinful_ amount of those grunts with every heft of the axe, and smelled an unjustified amount of Bailey's coming through barely-cracked windows. 

All this Steve-stimuli was sending his stupid body into pre-heat. 

He had been noticing it for a few weeks now. Since moving into the new home, having his own uninterrupted space meant his body was finally catching up with him. He was drowsy all the time, feverish in the evenings, and every inch of his body was oversensitive. Even sitting _still_ got him riled up. His hips were sore, his body aching deep in his belly, begging for something he just couldn't give it, yet. 

Fortunately, Becca offered to take Holls off his hands this weekend, so he can have some time alone. He could scream 'Hallelujah' from the fucking rooftops. 

When his sister arrives, he offers her a cup of coffee before she makes the drive back to Manhattan, and they sit at the kitchen island, the same spot he's sat with Steve, and _boy_ does his body remember. 

"_Christ_, Bucky," Becca makes a gagging sound, "You trying to drown me?" 

"What?" He shimmies uncomfortably.

"Tone it down, you fucking animal," She whispers, "You smell like you just creamed your—"

"Aht!" He yelps, pointing a finger, "No cursing in front of my kid this weekend. I don't want her coming home sounding like you and Darcy." 

"Bucky," Becca says, her voice oddly serious, "I'm only going to say this once, and that's only because I love you dearly and if I don't _actually_ say it, I can't say _'I told you so'_ later, okay?" 

"Okay?" He blinks.

She leans in close, "I know he's sweet Mr. Sunshine in your head right now, but listen carefully. Do _not_ sleep with that man this weekend." 

Bucky rolls his eyes, "Becca I am a grown man—"

"Did you hear me?" She says sternly. "Do _not_ sleep with Steven."

"I'm having a mild heat, Becca," He groans, "I'm not some sex-crazed fiend. I can control myself. You know me better than that. I'm not going to sleep with someone I barely know." 

"I'm just saying—I know you said you two had a 2am-Kumbaya-come-to-Jesus-type talk, but that doesn't mean you should get invested." She says with a wave of her hand. "Just—promise me."

Bucky rolls his eyes, much more exaggeratedly this time. "I promise."

"You promise what?" She grins.

"I promise I will not sleep with my really hot neighbor."

"Atta boy." She clicks her tongue, rising from her stool and heading down the hall to Holly's room, "C'mon Holls! Let's blow this popsicle stand!" 

Bucky _immediately_ regrets this decision. 

***

Was empty-nest syndrome a thing for parents of elementary school kids? 

Bucky had peppered his baby-girl's face with a billion kisses on her way out the door with her aunt, and double—no _triple_—checked that she was well packed for the weekend. 

Now, he was curled up on the couch under a pile of blankets, watching a Lifetime movie. There's a pint of chunky-monkey ice-cream here somewhere too, but it's probably empty though. He should really check. It would just be a sticky mess to clean up later, if he didn't. 

But first, he needed to cry. The pre-heat brought with it waves of emotions, this first one being that stifling, burning feeling in his face that told him tears were coming, even if they refused to fall. He knows it's coming, and that it _needs _to come if he's ever going to get to the _interesting_ part of his pre-heat any time soon.This was the third cheesy movie in a row that had failed to make him shed a tear. 

Just when he considers switching it off and putting on _My Girl_, or something, his phone starts buzzing under all nineteen blankets. He barely manages to answer it in time, and doesn't even register that it's _Brock's_ name on the screen when he does. Until, the feed loads in an he's looking down at Staff Sergeant Brock Rumlow in his cammies and hat, smiling up at him. 

"Hey there, handsome," Comes from the phone, and, well. It just _stirs_ something in Bucky. It sends him all the way back to when they were seventeen and the only place he ever wanted to be was under this man. 

"Hi," Bucky squeaks, running a hand through his hair.

"Are you alright?" Brock says wearily, pulling the phone closer to him to look at Bucky better. 

"Yeah—listen, Holly's not here. She's with my sister for the weekend."

"You?" Brock arches an eyebrow, "Away from Holly?" He squints. "Is something happening?"

"_No_, Brock," Bucky grits his teeth, "Everything is _swell_. If you really want to talk to her, you can call Becca tomorrow morning—"

"—Oh. You're going into heat, aren't you?" A slow smile crawls across his face. "You're in _heat_, that's why Holls is with Becca." 

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Fine. It's just a baby-heat. Nothing serious. Should be done in a a day or two, then Holls will be back home." 

Something in Brock shifts. His eyes go half-lidded, and his voice drops low. "I can just imagine how good that house smells right now." 

"Brock," Bucky tries to warn, but his voice is breathless. 

"You always did smell _so_ good when you went into heat, Buck. So sweet." He says gently, fixing his cap, "Christ, I—Is any coming over there to help you?" 

Just like that, the allure of his ex-husband is _gone_. "What? No, Brock." 

He raises his hands innocently, "Just asking. I know how it is when you get like that. There's probably a reason you wanted Holly out of the house, right? You never could keep quiet." 

"Okay," Bucky almost chokes. "That's enough out of you. Holls will be back on Sunday night. _Goodnight_." 

"Oh, c'mon, Buck," Brock flashes that smile—the one that has stripped Bucky down to his boxers for _years_ now. "If you wanted, I could always talk you through it on the phone," He offers, his voice a sweet lilt, "For old times sake?" 

"Fuck you," Bucky tries to hide the whine, but barely ends the call in time. He sat there, panting, after just a mere conversation with his ex-husband. _Christ_. 

When he shifts the blankets around him, he realizes his pajama bottoms are damp. Inspecting further, he realizes it isn't the sticky mess of melty ice-cream. 

His own eyelids drop down low now, and he feels the flush of heat across his face, neck, and chest, eagerly heading south. Kicking all the blankets off of him, he makes a beeline for his closet. 

On the top shelf, _waaaay_ at the back there, there's a box. Inside that box is _another_ box, and there, his heat-aids are safely stored in their clean plastic packaging. He drops the box on his bed, and double checks that the curtains are pulled tight. He runs his eyes over them—it's been so long, but he remembers each one vividly. The silicone one, the hard plastic knots—fuck, he's pretty sure one of these _vibrates_. 

He thinks about it for a long second, before kicking his damp pajama bottoms off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, side note, i'm now on nsfw twitter, should you guys want to see the shit i get up to over there! @/kaacchaann it's mostly BNHA stuff, but I'll probably start posting stucky/marvel things there eventually.


	8. Too-Big Christmas Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!!! First off--thanks for all the super sweet comments!! They really do always make my day! 
> 
> I've got a suuuuper tiny update today because I wanted to ask for some feedback. I know this fic has a lot of super-sweet family feels, but the outline I've got shifts a bit to deal with some more adult-themes in the A/B/O universe it's set in. I just wanted to gauge my audience--there won't be any deaths, and there will be a happy ending, but what would you all say to a bit of angst? 
> 
> I've got a tentative plan, but I'd also love to hear from you all. It's not going to be dramatic or violent, just a bit...angsty. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you all are keeping yourselves safe and healthy! Until next time, Cheers! xx

That Friday night, Becca comes to get Holly and the pair talk about Steve. Becca advises against sleeping with him. Bucky doesn’t think he wants to take her advice. Lots of people have horrible, terrible, _painful_ heats, but Bucky was never one of those unfortunate souls. Even his first heat, which people normally considered the Worst They’ve Ever Experienced™, was just a few days of incessant horniness, spent blacked out on his bed in a lustful daze. 

Last night, however, was the worst he thinks he’s ever had. 

By no means was it painful—honestly, it was the opposite of painful. It was insanely, _obscenely_ pleasurable. He was completely fucked-out, rolling through wave after wave of orgasm, and honestly, complaining about it felt wrong. 

But, he was _insatiable_. He’s used every single toy, every knot, every little buzzing instrument he owned, and _nothing _was enough. He’d be reeling—panting and whining into the hot, fevered air of his bedroom—only to have that warm feeling of lust resurface in his groin moments after quelling it. 

He’s pretty sure the only reason he’d managed to fall asleep was because he was downright _exhausted. _

When he woke up amidst the evidence of the night’s escapades, he flushed, remembering just how desperate a night it’d been. Some parts are foggier than others, but he _does_ remember the way Steve’s name had fallen out of his lips at one point, and how it didn’t stop, orgasm after orgasm. 

“Oh God,” He groans, pulling a pillow over his face to hide his shame from his empty bedroom. 

Instead of feeling sorry for himself any longer, he pulled himself out of bed—trying to ignore the familiar stirring in his lap—and set about his morning.

Without Holly to cater to, there wasn’t much left to do besides put his ruined sheets in the wash, grab himself a cold, _cold_ shower, and set out to make himself some coffee. 

From his kitchen, he can see Steve stirring in his own kitchen, putting Hop’s breakfast down and ruffling the dog’s ears. He’s—well, he’s in his long flannel pajama bottoms. 

_Just_ his pajama bottoms. 

Like clockwork, mini-Bucky started stirring.

“This is ridiculous,” He glares down at the tent forming in his pants. 

He takes another glance through the windows, watching Steve pick a giant pink mug out of the cabinet and begin pouring himself a cup of coffee. He looks so—_normal_. Ridiculously hot, and outrageously handsome this early in the morning, but also just _normal_.

On a regular day, Bucky would just be getting Holly out of bed right about now, which made it make sense that he’d never seen the blond’s morning rituals. If even another hour had gone by, the glare from the rising sun would make it difficult to see over there. 

Bucky watches with heavy eyes as Steve settles against the counter, setting his mug down in favor of a long, gorgeous, sleepy stretch upwards, showing off his beautifully lean body. If he were closer, Bucky bets he’d be able to see the lines of his ribs on either side of his chest, and the shift of his core muscles with every languid move. 

_Aaaand now he’s imagining it._

He feels dampness begin to gather in the seat of his pants _again_, and grunts, “Fuck you, Steve.”

***

Steve considers himself a pretty simple man, with a pretty decent grip on his self-control; but seems that Bucky Barnes is determined to change that.

His morning walk started like it always did: leashing Hops and heading down his driveway. Little did he know that in exactly _twelve_ feet, he would be assaulted by the most delicious thing he’s ever smelled in his entire life. 

It smelled like a warm vanilla latte, like hot fresh blankets right out of a dryer, like the sweet drippings of warm honey onto a hot dessert. 

It stopped him dead in his tracks, making Hops huff at him. 

Inside, Steve was suddenly fighting a battle with his Alpha—every instinct was howling for him to make his way into that house, to follow that _delicious_ scent to it’s source; but outside, he was stock-still, his eyes wide and brows pinched up in the center, because he was still _sane_, and he knows that he _can’t_.

It’s a shame that a man smelling _that_ good was spending his heat alone. A tragedy that makes his inner Alpha whine. 

A soft, interrupting bark comes from Hops—who definitely just wants to finish his walk. 

“Yeah,” He mumbles, “Yeah, let’s go, Hops.” 

***

Bucky would be lying if he said he hadn’t been loitering at his mailbox when he saw Steve coming back from his morning walk with Hops. 

He just wanted to ask him question! That’s expected of new neighbors, right? He’s new to the area, and he just wanted some direction. 

Yes, that’s it. It most _definitely_ was not a ploy to get a good whiff of the Alpha’s pheromones. Not at all. 

“Good morning,” Steve says when he’s close enough. His voice is clipped and short, which makes Bucky hesitate.

“Good morning!” Bucky replies. “Hey, can I ask you something?” 

“Of course.”

“Holls is with my sister for the day. I want to get a tree up so she can decorate it with her cousins later tonight. Would you happen to know where I could get a decent one this early?” 

Steve’s face lights up with the most brilliant smile, and Bucky has to lean onto the mailbox to keep himself from falling forward. 

“I know exactly the place.” Steve says, stepping a bit closer. 

Then, just to knock the wind out of Bucky’s lungs, that heavy, creamy scent reaches his nose—rye whiskey and sweet cream, cinnamon and cloves.It’s all his hindbrain needed to start pumping out _very _pleased pheromones and to tell his reproductive system that it was _go-time_. 

If Steve noticed the shift in his scent, or the way he not-so-inconspicuously crossed his legs, he didn’t mention it, which Bucky was grateful for. He could probably already smell his heat, the last thing Bucky wanted was for Steve to know just how hot he was for him. 

“There’s a tree farm not to far out from here.” Steve gestures northward. “How’re you going to get it home, though?” He arches a brow, glancing at the sedan parked in Bucky’s driveway. “You won’t make it back down the Cross-County with a tree strapped to that.” 

Bucky can’t help but narrow his eyes a bit defiantly. “I’ve strapped a tree to my car, every Christmas, for years now.”

Steve chuckles, then arches his brow again. “I’m sure you have—but where’d you get those trees? Same place you get your firewood?” 

Steve was poking fun at him—but where the teasing would normally upset him, it’s only making him smile. Bucky can’t help but put his hand on his hip and squint at the man. 

“_Yes_, but let me guess, your trees are better?” 

“Without contest,” Steve smiles, thoroughly amused by his little fit. “Listen, why don’t I take you out there today? I’ve been meaning to swing over there to pick-up Stan’s tree for the bookstore, too.” 

“That’s—well, that’s really nice of you, Steve.”

“Please.” He says, quieter this time, “I’d just give you directions, but I’m serious—you’ll dent your car’s roof trying to bring any of their trees home.” 

Bucky snorts, and nudges the Alpha’s big arm, marveling for a moment at just strong it was. He could feel his inner Omega purring at the thought of being caged in by such big—

“You busy today? How about in an hour or so? It’s not too far away, but that way you’ll have time to prop it up before Holly gets back?” 

“Yes—yeah, an hour. Got it. Thanks, Steve.” Bucky’s face felt like it was on fire. He hoped to _God_ his scent wasn’t so transparent, too.

***


End file.
